The Epigraphy of Death: Studies in the History and Society of Greece and Rome

THE EPIGRAPHY OF DEATH Studies in the History and Society of Greece and Rome

THE EPIGRAPHY OF DEATH Studies in the History and Society of Greece and Rome Edited by G. J. Oliver

Liverpool University Press

First published 2000 by LIVERPOOL UNIVERSITY PRESS Liverpool L69 7ZU ©2000 Liverpool University Press The right of G. J. Oliver to be identified as the editor of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A British Library CIP Record is available ISBN 0-85323-915-0 Typeset in Perpetua by BBR, Sheffield Printed by Redwood Books, Trowbridge

Contents PREFACE

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ABBREVIATIONS

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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CHAPTER ONE An Introduction to the Epigraphy of Death: Funerary Inscriptions as Evidence Graham Oliver

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CHAPTER TWO The Times They Are A’Changing: Developments in Fifth-Century Funerary Sculpture Karen Stears

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CHAPTER THREE Athenian Funerary Monuments: Style, Grandeur, and Cost Graham Oliver

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CHAPTER FOUR Milesian Immigrants in Late Hellenistic and Roman Athens Torben Vestergaard

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NOTE TO CHAPTER FOUR The Archaeology of Miletus

111 Alan Greaves

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CHAPTER FIVE Commemoration of Infants on Roman Funerary Inscriptions Margaret King

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CHAPTER SIX Inscription and Sculpture: the Construction of Identity in the Military Tombstones of Roman Mainz Valerie Hope

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CHAPTER SEVEN The Inscriptions on the Ash Chests of the Ince Blundell Hall Collection: Ancient and Modern Glenys Davies

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GENERAL INDEX

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INDEX LOCORUM

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Preface

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any books are a team effort, and The Epigraphy of Death is no exception. I would like to thank Professor Stephen Mitchell for many helpful comments on those papers which provided the basis for Chapters Four, Five, Six, and Seven. Professor Gillian Clark and Professor Chris Mee have read and commented on the material in preparation of the book. Professor J. K. Davies made helpful comments on a number of the chapters; Dr Stephen Lambert has made a number of helpful suggestions to the authors of Chapters Three and Four. Professor E. A. Slater and the School of Archaeology, Classics and Oriental Studies (SACOS) have provided not only support for the conference in January 1995 but also stable employment for myself. During my time at The University of Liverpool, SACOS granted me a semester of research leave in 1998 which allowed time for further editorial work on the book. Dr David Blackman, Director of The British School at Athens, the staff of the School and its Library have all been a considerable help in the final stages of the editorial process. A number of museums and individuals have assisted in supplying and granting permission to publish photographs: Dr Hans R. Goette, Dr Jutta Stroszeck and the German Archaeological Institute in Athens for Figures 2.1, 3.1A and 3.2B; Dr Decker and the Landesmuseum Mainz for Figures 6.1, 6.2, 6.3, 6.4 and 6.5; and Alison Wilkins of the Institute of Archaeology, University of Oxford, for her adaptation of the site plan for Figure 2.1. This collection of essays has been published with the greatest

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of patience from the contributors and I thank them deeply for waiting so long for the material to be produced. I hope their wait has been worthwhile. Robin Bloxsidge and the staff of Liverpool University Press have been a great support and have encouraged this project from its inception. Their hard work made the production of this volume possible. Chris Reed of BBR has been instrumental in turning the manuscript into a book. Finally, I would like to thank Karen Lawrie for her tolerance in the final months of preparing this volume for publication, and I hope that she will accept it as a some reward for her support.

Abbreviations AA = Archäologischer Anzeiger AEE = S. A. Koumanoudis, Attikis epigraphai epitymvioi, Athens, 1871. AEpigr = L’Année Epigraphique AJA = American Journal of Archaeology AJAH = American Journal of Ancient History AJP = American Journal of Philology AM = Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung AncSoc = Ancient Society AnnNap = Annali della Facoltà di lettere e filosofia, Università di Napoli AntCl = L’Antiquité Classique AntJ = Antiquaries Journal ARID = Analecta Romana Instituti Danici ARV2 = J. D. Beazley, Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters, 2nd edn, Oxford, 1963. BAR = British Archaeological Reports BCH = Bulletin de Correspondence Hellénique BICS = Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies BJb = Bonner Jahrbücher des Rheinischen Landesmuseums I Bonn und des Vereins von Altertumsfreunden im Rheinlande Boreas = Boreas. Münstersche Beiträge zur Archäologie Britannia = Britannia. A Journal for Romano-British and Kindred Studies BSA = Annual of the British School at Athens

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CAH = D. M. Lewis, J. Boardman, J. K. Davies, M. Ostwald, eds., The Cambridge Ancient History. Volume V. The Fifth Century BC, 2nd edn, Cambridge, 1992. CAT = C. W. Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, Kilchberg, 1993–95. CCEC = Cahiers du Centre d’Études Chypriotes CIG = Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum CIL = Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum CJ = Classical Journal ClMed = Classica et Mediaevalia CP = Classical Philology CQ = Classical Quarterly CSIR = Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani CurrAnthr = Current Anthropology CVA = Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum EchCl = Echos du Monde Classique. Classical Views EpigAnat = Epigraphica Anatolica FGrH = F. Jacoby, Fragmente der Griechischen Historiker, Berlin, 1923–. GaR = Greece and Rome GRBS = Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies Historia = Historia. Zeischrift für alte Geschichte HSCP = Harvard Studies in Classical Philology ID = P. Roussel and M. Launey, Inscriptions de Délos, Paris, 1937. IG = Inscriptiones Graecae IstMitt = Istanbuler Mitteilungen JBAA = Journal of the British Archaeological Association JdI = Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts JHS = Journal of Hellenic Studies JRA = Journal of Roman Archaeology JRGZM = Jahrbuch des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums, Mainz JRS = Journal of Roman Studies

List of Abbreviations

xi

LSJ = H. G. Liddell, R. Scott and H. Stuart Jones, Greek–English Lexicon, 9th edn, Oxford, 1940. MZ = Mainzer Zeitschrift OJA = Oxford Journal of Archaeology PastPres = Past and Present R-E = A. Pauly, G. Wisowa and W. Kroll, Real-Encyclopädie d. Klassischen Altertumwissenschaft, 1893–. RIB = R. G. Collingwood and R. P. Wright, The Roman Inscriptions of Britain I, Oxford, 1965. SEG = Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum TAPA = Transactions of the American Philological Association

List of Contributors Dr Glenys Davies Senior Lecturer in Classical Art and Archaeology, Department of Classics, The University of Edinburgh Dr Alan Greaves Lecturer in Archaeology, School of Archaeology, Classics and Oriental Studies, The University of Liverpool Dr Val Hope Lecturer in the Department of Classical Studies, The Open University Dr Margaret King Edinburgh

Academic Development Officer, Heriot-Watt University,

Dr Graham Oliver Senior Research Fellow, School of Archaeology, Classics and Oriental Studies, The University of Liverpool Dr Karen Stears Sir William Fraser Lecturer in Ancient History, Department of Classics, The University of Edinburgh Dr Torben Vestergaard Department of Greek and Latin, The University of Copenhagen

List of Illustrations 2.1 Grave monument of Aristodikos, c. 500–490 BC.

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2.2 Grave monument of Nautes son of Eudemides of Torone.

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2.3 Plan of the Kerameikos.

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2.4 Attic white-ground lekythos by the Inscription Painter (NM 1958). 34 2.5 Grave monument of Eupheros, c. 430–25 BC.

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3.1A Three cippi: of Lysimachides, Lysimachos, and Lysistratos.

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3.1B Kioniskos of Lysimachides son of Lysimachos of Acharnai.

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3.2 Kioniskoi at the Kerameikos.

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4.1 The progradation of the Büyük Menderes Graben (after Aksu et al., 1987b).

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5.1 Inscriptions by age category: infants by age.

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5.2 Inscriptions by age category: years 10–14.

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5.3 Inscriptions by age and sex: infants.

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5.4 Inscriptions by age and sex: years 10–14.

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5.5 Total number of infant inscriptions by epithet.

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5.6 Epithets in proportion to inscriptions with infants by age and sex. 144 5.7 Categories of commemorators in infant inscriptions.

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6.1 Tombstone of Gaius Iulius Andiccus of the Sixteenth Legion.

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6.2 Tombstone of Andes of the ala Claudia.

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6.3 Tombstone of Gaius Romanius Capito of the ala Noricorum.

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6.4 Tombstone of Quintus Luccius Faustus of the Fourteenth Legion. 170 6.5 Tombstone of Genialis of the Cohors VII Raetorum.

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6.6 Table of Mainz military tombstones.

174

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6.7 Graph of Mainz military tombstones. 7.1 Ash chest of Q. Curiatius Zosimus. 7.2 Ash chest of C. Iulius Hirmaiscus. 7.3 Ash chest of T. Flavius Eutyches. 7.4 Double ash chest of L. Manlius Philargyrus and Larcia Rufina. 7.5 Ash chest of Euphrosyne. 7.5A Detail of the inscription on the ash chest of Euphrosyne. 7.6 Inscription on the ash chest of Rutilia Romana. 7.7 Ash chest of Hermes (dedicated by A. Plautius Gallus). 7.8 Monumenta Mattheiana III, pl. 73:6 and 5. 7.9 Ash chest of Fulvanus. 7.10 Monumenta Mattheiana III, pl. 65:1. 7.11 Ash chest of Lappia Prima. 7.12 Ash chest of Laflius Primigenius. 7.13 Ash chest with inscription D M ET CINERIBVS QCPF.

174 192 192 193 193 196 196 197 197 202 202 204 204 208 208

CHAPTER ONE

An Introduction to the Epigraphy of Death: Funerary Inscriptions as Evidence Graham Oliver The culture of burials and cemeteries

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urials and cemeteries from antiquity, indeed from all periods of history, reveal a great deal about culture. This is no surprise. Ancient cultures have often been judged on the evidence of their monumentalization of death: Egypt, Greece and Rome have all been read through their memorials for the dead. This was all too evident in the first half of the nineteenth century in England. The creation of public cemeteries which started in the 1820s was, in part, inspired by the images that survived from antiquity.1 The glories of ancient civilization were seen through the evidence of their burials. Strang spoke on such matters at the opening of Glasgow’s Necropolis, the city’s first public cemetery: We have seen with what pains the most celebrated nations of which history speaks have adorned their places of sepulture, and it is from their funereal monuments that we gather much that is known of their civil progress and of their advancement in taste 1

Colvin (1991), pp. 353–54.

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The Epigraphy of Death … The tomb has, in fact, been the great chronicler of taste throughout the world.2

The growth of the cemetery and the forms of the grander memorials in the late Georgian and early Victorian periods reflect a selective approach to the history of the past. The treatment of the dead was seen then as a measure of a society’s greatness. Strang’s sentiments were inspired by the ever expanding knowledge of the burial customs of the past. The Grand Tour of the eighteenth century had given way to what were then the more exotic regions in the eastern Mediterranean. Greece became more accessible in the late 1700s and early 1800s. The more daring might venture further to the Middle East and beyond. At the same time the cultural imperialism of England, France and Germany saw these regions as new arenas for competition.3 The British lost the race for the sculptural spoils from the Temple at Aphaia in Aegina, won the bidding for the Phigaleian marbles from Bassai, and eventually recovered the notorious Elgin marbles for the benefit of the people.4 The considerable interest in Greek culture at the end of the eighteenth and first decades of the nineteenth centuries affected all kinds of aspects of life. The new cemeteries reflected an appetite not only for the cultures of Greek history, but also those of the Roman, Egyptian and Medieval periods. Architectural forms imitated, often as pastiche, the historical traditions of the past. The new cemeteries gave considerable scope for the conspicuous consumption of wealth.5 The ambitious pursuit of taste in these early cemeteries produced a remarkable exhibition of style. Large sums of money were invested in the grand memorials, many of which can still be seen in the Victorian

2 3 4 5

Strang (1831), p. 63. Beard and Henderson (1995), pp. 12–13. St Clair (1998), pp. 201–05 on Aegina and Bassai; pp. 245–60 on the Elgin purchases. Curl (1980).

An Introduction to the Epigraphy of Death

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cemeteries of Britain’s metropoleis.6 But these early cemeteries were not exclusively concerned with reflections of social organization.7 The early cemetery movement was in many ways a response to the insufficient capacity of existing cemeteries in the early nineteenth century. Sanitation was high on the public agenda. Parish graveyards could no longer cope with the demands of the industrial cities: the new cemeteries were often located in greenfield sites. Created as an idyllic oasis removed from the heaving centre of the metropolis, the plans and layout of Kensal Green, London’s first public cemetery, were designed to offer a refuge for the visitor. At the same time, the design and technology were modern and up-to-date—Kensal Green employed the latest lift technology in its subterranean sepulchre beneath the Conformist Chapel, where cheaper and less ostentatious disposal of the dead was facilitated.8 These remarks on nineteenth-century practices are introductory. They scratch the surface of remarkable developments in the social history of Britain and Europe in this period. Without the additional documentary material available from the nineteenth century, one might otherwise have relied on the surviving inscriptions and an interpretation of the monuments themselves. Ultimately, the funerary inscription, as well as the memorial itself, can tell us only so much about attitudes towards the dead. To treat the inscription alone, without reference to the monument on which it was located, is to miss significant areas of understanding the funerary monument. This issue can be expressed in another way: the epigraphy of the dead can not be understood without considering the monument on which it is found and the wider context in which the monument was located.9 Interpretation of the funerary monuments of the recent past 6 7 8 9

Parker-Pearson (1982), pp. 106–07, 109. On the trend towards less ostentatious displays of funerary monuments in the twentieth century, see pp. 109–10. Parker-Pearson (1982), p. 99–101. Curl (1972), ch. 3. For similar sentiments on tombstones, see Morris (1992), p. 160: ‘we cannot analyse any feature of the burial ritual in isolation’.

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is not simple but has been facilitated by the study of documentary evidence. A variety of material can be used to shed light on the function and history of burial practice in late Georgian and early Victorian England, for example. This information can be deployed to complement the visible evidence. For the student of antiquity, however, the remains of the civilizations of Greece and Rome rarely offer the documentary largesse of the recent past. The historian of these ancient cultures must therefore squeeze as much as possible from what little survives. This book concerns itself with epigraphical evidence, and the authors of each chapter are concerned with extracting information from inscribed monuments. But it will soon become clear that each of these studies does not concern itself only with the analysis of the inscribed portions of any one monument or set of monuments. To understand the function and information in inscriptions often requires the epigraphy to be studied in its physical environment.

Funerary epigraphy in context

I

f one isolates an inscription from the monument on which it is written and the context in which that monument was located, one dismisses a great deal of important and vital information. The traditional publication of inscriptions has had a tendency to emphasize the text in isolation. The famous volumes devoted to Greek and Latin epigraphy, Inscriptiones Graecae and Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, offer the reader well-researched and authoritative editions of inscribed monuments. The emphasis of those volumes was rightly on producing a high quality text but, for anyone who wishes to research the wider context in which such epigraphical texts were seen, these volumes have their limitations. The visual, archaeological, or topographical context in which the inscription was presented is not always given in detail or easily understood. Epigraphical evidence is but one aspect of ancient culture which has survived over time. If one wishes to understand the function of epigraphy in its wider

An Introduction to the Epigraphy of Death

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historical and cultural context, one will not be served well by the isolation of an epigraphical text from its own physical context. The approaches adopted in this collection of essays on funerary epigraphy suggest ways in which one might read inscriptions in such a wider context. The general themes explored in the epigraphy of death can not be separated from the wider related issues of burial practice. One of the most recent studies of burial in antiquity has sought greater contextualization of this topic. Ian Morris’s Death-Ritual and Social Structure in Classical Antiquity tackles the archaeological material, including epigraphy, in a broad historical context. His study offers a selection of viewpoints from which we can study burial: typology, time, deposition contexts, space and demography are all considered. There are numerous other possibilities.10 The interests displayed by Morris exemplify the developing interests in connecting different forms of evidence and understanding the relationships between them. The gathering of these connections allows a greater understanding of each form of evidence; studies of particular categories of evidence in isolation from others inhibit such a perspective but are often the essential platform on which synthetic analysis can be built. In some respects selecting the epigraphical evidence of tombstones may be seen as a way of isolating the evidence, of separating out the inscribed text from its context. Although the title of this book has been chosen to emphasize the value of epigraphical evidence, it must be emphasized that the inscribed tombstones are consistently treated in a wider context. This may involve, inter alia, ‘treating them as part of rites which separated the living from the dead, or … assessing their visual impact in the landscape of later generations’.11 One can find examples of both these aspects in recent work on funerary epigraphy and in the chapters of this volume. Ritual practice, for example, lies at the heart of the chapter by 10 Morris (1992), p. 202. 11 Morris (1992), p. 156.

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Stears (Chapter Two) which reassesses the use of inscribed burial markers at Athens in the wider context of burial practice in the fifth-century polis. The imposition of legislation concerning burial customs in this period affected the rites which included the erection of monuments.12 King (Chapter Five) has reassessed the epigraphical evidence of tombstones from Rome erected for infants. The study suggests that the practice of commemorating the very young does in fact involve a greater level of emotional display than has been usually argued. The parallel with the burial of children at Kerameikos in Athens at the start of the fifth century BC is interesting. There too one can see that the attitude to the death of infants is complex but does not necessarily reveal the greater attention to the death of older children that one might expect.13 The assessment of tombstones and their impact on the landscape for later generations is indeed a far-reaching theme. In the strict sense, one might point to the purely physical presence of the memorials themselves. How long did a memorial survive? How much of the earlier monuments was visible to subsequent generations? It is interesting to compare recent burial practices. Small has shown that less ostentatious tombstones in Nisky Hill have been erected in the twentieth century and thereby make social hierarchies less obvious. But social distinctions do exist. The extended use and care of family plots is remarkable; such areas are identifiable by the regularly cleaned and repaired burial markers.14 The ‘life’ of family burial areas in antiquity can sometimes be identified; exceptionally, tombstones can list multiple generations of a family. From the fourth century BC, the family of Meidon of Myrrhinous (from Merenda, Attica) can be traced over six generations.15 It is possible that family continuity is another indicator of prosperity.16 ‘Lasting burial with

12 13 14 15 16

See Houby-Nielsen (1998), p. 131 on luxury laws and burial practices. Houby-Nielsen (1995), pp. 146–50 and Tables 6–8. Small (1995), p. 152 and n. 17. Humphreys (1980), p. 115. Pomeroy (1997), pp. 124–25.

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a commemorative marker is an indication of high status … Care in death is consistent with care in life.’17 The archaeological context of tombstones is central to any attempt at addressing questions about the continuity of burial contexts. The creation of tomb-cult became a feature of the postClassical Greek world, although apparently not in Attica.18 There monuments of earlier generations were re-used but not necessarily to claim that such memorials belonged to previous family members. Material from grave precincts in the Kerameikos was reused during the latter half of the fourth century and through the third century BC. A levelling policy in the third century increased the ground level of the Street of the Tombs by moving fill from surrounding tumuli and, as a result, some fourth-century tombstones in the Kerameikos were no longer visible by the later Hellenistic period.19 Monuments did survive and these provided an important backdrop for subsequent burials. In the later fourth century and Hellenistic period it is clear that the remaining monumental tombs of the fourth century were being exploited by later commemorators who erected memorials in front of earlier monuments.20 Not all of the later memorials were simple.21 The employment of the earlier Classical monuments provided a stage which enhanced the context in which later tombstones were observed. The visual impact of tombstones on the landscape of later generations need not stop within the perspective of antiquity. The funerary monuments of antiquity made an impression throughout history. During the eighteenth century Davies (Chapter Seven) describes how important it was that collectors of Roman ash chests felt they were buying something authentic. It was not enough that the funerary monument merely looked like a real ancient memorial. Inscriptions were sometimes added to such tombstones to confirm 17 18 19 20 21

Pomeroy (1997), p. 120. Alcock (1991), p. 458; Pomeroy (1997), pp. 108–14. Houby-Nielsen (1998), pp. 138–40. Houby-Nielsen (1998), pp. 140–42. Small (1995).

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that such monuments looked as though they had really belonged at some stage in the ancient landscape. The same phenomenon affected sculpture.22 Craftsmen were giving new identities by joining and enhancing separate dismembered fragments of ancient sculpture; the addition of inscriptions to the ash chests could serve a similar function of authentication. It is evident that consistent attention to the context in which the inscribed funerary monuments appear is necessary. The impressive collections of Classical tombstones by Conze and Clairmont have compounded the problems involved in removing ancient monuments from their contexts. The concentration on memorials with sculpture obscures the wider funerary context. Clairmont is aware of the importance of what he calls the provenance of funerary monuments.23 But as Garland’s study of peribolos tombs has shown, numerous burial enclosures need not have included monuments decorated with sculpture.24 The chapters in this volume present a number of different approaches to epigraphical evidence used in burial contexts. The arrangement of the volume has been largely chronological moving from Classical Athens (Chapters Two and Three) through the Hellenistic period (Chapter Four) into the Roman period (Chapters Five to Seven). Chapter Seven gives attention to an area often overlooked by exploring the history of evidence published in epigraphical corpora. Glenys Davies’s work on the Ince Blundell collection of Ash chests offers a cautionary tale. Private collections provide a valuable source for sculptural and epigraphical material, and Clairmont has discussed and underlined the importance of European, and especially British, collecting habits in his account of the funerary monuments that were brought back from Greece.25 22 23 24 25

Ramage (1996). Clairmont (1983), pp. 47–65 Garland (1982); Clairmont (1983), p. 48. Clairmont (1983), pp. 204–16. For material in British collections, see Michaelis (1882, 1884 and 1885); Vermeule (1955); Vermuele and von Bothmer (1956, 1959a, 1959b).

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Davies deals with the lucrative market in eighteenth-century Italy when Blundell was building up his collection of antiquities towards the end of his life. The examination of the inscriptions on the chests he purchased raises questions about the authenticity for not only were some of the ash chests purchased by Blundell produced a long time after antiquity, but many of them had inscriptions added to them. Davies’s re-examination shows that some, but not all, of the later inscriptions were noticed by the editors of the epigraphical corpus CIL. That epigraphy should have been felt to be so important to purchasers of antiquities in the eighteenth century only serves to underline the relevance of the material treated by this collection of essays. There are numerous approaches to the evidence of ancient tombstones and in what follows some of the themes which these chapters illuminate will be drawn together.

Wealth

I

t is difficult to avoid asking what sort of people erected tombstones. The question has been asked of Greek and Roman material, and Oliver (Chapter Three) returns to such issues for fourth-century Athens. Here the debate has focused on whether or not people of differing levels of wealth would have been able to afford to erect a tombstone. The evidence from antiquity for the cost of tombstones is fraught with difficulties, but to concentrate on that one issue obscures the wider related question of affordability of burial rites. In this respect, Oliver invites further consideration of other crucial issues, some of which for Athenian practices remain to be resolved. In addition to the cost of the burial marker, whether grand or simple, one must consider the physical context in which it appears. Simple burial markers need not indicate absence of wealth. But what about the space which a burial and its marker occupied? We know very little about the practical arrangements for claiming an area for one’s burial in classical Athens. As part of the intrinsic and potential cost of a burial, this is an area which needs re-examination.

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These issues are much clearer in the Roman period where more detailed evidence reveals the conditions and management of extra-urban burial.26 The evidence from the Roman period confirms that the wider burial activities were as much part of the intrinsic cost involved in a burial as raising a memorial. The evidence for expenditure on burial in the Imperial period suggests that relatively more money was spent on tombs among the richer members of society.27 Costs of burial varied in the Empire: in Africa, the lowest sum spent on a burial was still equivalent of one fifth of a year’s pay.28 But the most expensive burials were nowhere near as extravagant as those from Italy. Collegia provided many individuals with an opportunity to secure a funeral. But these organizations usually demanded a fee on joining (perhaps between HS 100 and 125). Funeral grants could range between HS 250 and 560. Membership of such collegia was probably not monopolized by the poorest members of the Roman world; the joining fee was not insubstantial.29 A degree of choice was involved in becoming a member of a collegium. If a trader or craftsman chose to be buried within the context of a collegium, this decision should not be seen as a simple indicator of affordability.30 For the poorest members of Roman society, proper burial was almost certainly an unaffordable luxury.31 Nerva’s introduction of an allowance for burial was surely aimed at improving the conditions for the urban plebs. The cost of burial at the lower end of the social scale does not compare favourably with the sums known to have been spent in the Roman period. There are a little less than 100 known prices for tombstones from the Roman empire, and of these just over two per cent could have been afforded by a collegium funeral 26 Purcell (1997); on intra-mural burial in Asia Minor, see now Cormack (1997), pp. 140–43. 27 Duncan-Jones (1982), p. 130 and Table 3. 28 Duncan-Jones (1974), p. 129. 29 van Nijf (1997), pp. 32–33. 30 van Nijf (1997), pp. 53–55. 31 Hopkins (1983), pp. 208–09.

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grant of HS 250.32 Burial does seem to have been one of the main concerns of a collegium and the cost involved was not restricted to the price of erecting a memorial: burial rites extended beyond the cost of the monument and included land prices and ritual elements thought necessary.33 It is also clear that not all burials would have been marked out with an inscribed tombstone. Uninscribed burial markers might in antiquity have been confused for boundary markers in more rural contexts.34 Lack of burial separated those who might be considered ‘outside’ society: in Rome those who took their own lives were denied a proper burial.35 This practice is confirmed by the regulations drawn up for the collegium at Lanuvium which directed that those who did not pay their fees or committed suicide lost their rights of membership.36 In Greece, lack of burial indicated extreme conditions.37 During the plague at Athens in 430 BC, the dead were left unburied and lay in temple precincts.38 Temple robbers may have been left unburied, but these were among the exceptions.39 Burial of some sort may have been expected for all people, but the quality and nature of burial was almost certainly affected by wealth and status. The expenditure on burial and the costs of erecting an inscribed tombstone are therefore related. The wealth of the dead and their commemorators can be studied through the inscribed funerary monument only within the wider burial context.

32 33 34 35 36 37

Duncan-Jones (1982), p. 131, van Nijf (1997), p. 31. Bodel (1997), p. 21. Kyle (1998), p. 130 and n. 31. Hopkins (1983), p. 213. Parker (1983), pp. 42–48; on lack of burial, see also Garland (1985), pp. 101–03. 38 Thuc. 2.52.2–3. 39 Parker (1983), p. 45.

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Group identity: ethnicity

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roper burial not only indicates wealth but informs identity. The evidence of the tombstone can be read as a representation of how the dead wished to be viewed. That image may have been created by the survivors of the deceased or directed by the deceased. The evidence of funerary epigraphy can also reveal a great deal about social class and group identity. Tombstones present evidence for membership or association with different social groups. Vestergaard (Chapter Four) deals with issues of Milesian ethnicity; King (Chapter Five) treats age class and specifically attitudes and emotions towards the loss of infants; and Hope (Chapter Six) considers the investment made by auxiliary soldiers at Mainz in defining their identity. The Milesians in Athens were among the largest group of people designated by a specific ‘ethnic’.40 The largely epigraphical evidence, most of which is derived from tombstones, raises an important question about the presence of the Milesians in Athens. Were all those known as Milesian from the epigraphical record Milesians? Vestergaard argues that the Milesians were more integrated into Athenian society than any other group of non-Athenians. In the later Hellenistic period this integration extended further when the formal barrier against Athenians marrying non-Athenians seems to have been removed. The presence of Milesians among the non-Athenian population in the late Hellenistic and Roman periods reflects the cosmopolitan nature of the time. Milesians of course appear as dominant non-native members of other Greek communities. The reasons for the dominance of the Milesians takes one back to Miletus itself. In an archaeological note to Vestergaard’s chapter, Greaves explains in more detail the conditions in and around Miletus towards the end of the first millennium BC. Population pressures may have increased with the movement of peoples that synoikism with local communities introduced. Excavation is revealing an increasing amount of archeological detail which can only make this picture 40 Osborne and Byrne (1996), nos. 3735–5746.

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more complete. Miletus had been a major colonizing force, and its outposts in the Greek world were numerous. But the precise reasons for the peculiar mobility and large number of Milesians remains elusive. A better understanding of the onomastics of Milesian names may yet indicate the nature and perhaps origins of many Milesians.41 The continuing pre-eminence of Milesians within the body of Attic epigraphy is remarkable. Their presence serves at the very least to show the continued importance of ethnic identity in the later Hellenistic and Roman periods.42

Age class: infant death and feelings of loss

H

ow people were identified and categorized by age has become a popular area of study in recent years. Father–son43 and adult–child relationships,44 the nature of childhood45 or of old age46 have all been scrutinized in both Greek and Roman society. The use of funerary inscriptions to illuminate family structures and family life is well established but particularly efficacious when one is considering family tombstones.47 Tombstones can be used to reveal attitudes towards children48 and infants. King (Chapter Five) argues that the language used on the epitaphs from Rome which commemorate infants reveals an emotional attachment to the dead. How do the epitaphs of Rome compare with those of Classical Athens? The material from fourth century Attica rarely provides the sort of details found commonly on a Latin tombstone: age at death, occupation, and a phrase or sentiment for the departed. However where they 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

See Lambert (forthcoming) on E10. Hall (1997), pp. 65–66. E.g. Strauss (1993), pp. 61–99; Eyben (1991). Rawson (1991). Golden (1990); Garland (1990), pp. 106–62; Kleijwegt (1991). Garland (1990), pp. 242–87. Martin (1996), p. 53. See Hope (1997) on tombstones within burial enclosures at Pompeii. 48 Huskinson (1996); Rawson (1997b).

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do exist in Attica, one can gauge the sentiments which King finds in the Roman material.49 On a fourth-century BC Athenian tomb monument, Ampharete is depicted holding a child. The epitaph reveals that the child is Ampharete’s grand-daughter: ‘I hold this dear child of my daughter, whom I held on my knees when we were alive and looked with our eyes upon the light of the sun, whom now dead, I dead hold’ (translated by S. Pomeroy).50 Our understanding of the sense of loss felt by the parents, siblings and children towards the deceased in antiquity has been inextricably linked to theories of Greek and Roman demography. The high mortality rate in infancy and early childhood, the lower life expectancy at birth for women and the belief that selective female infanticide was rife in antiquity has perhaps restrained the sort of approach which King adopts. Underlying her chapter is the belief that the epigraphical record expresses an emotional response to loss. And furthermore, the expressions suggest that the loss of infants impacted on the survivor and effected an emotional response. One might read that expression in the same evidence. Keith Hopkins has explained the complexities in trying to understand such expressions of grief.51 The problems involved are not confined to ancient history. Hopkins observes an opposition in attitude to loss and grief. A simple explanation sees two approaches. There are those who believe that expressions of grief would have been moulded by a society’s culture and conditions; and there are others who believe that grief is natural or inherent, and that behind the forms of expression one can find the feelings of those involved. King’s chapter re-addresses these methodological problems in her analysis of infant commemoration on Roman tombstones.

49 Garland (1985), p. 86: ‘all the evidence suggests that the death of a Greek child was a painful and disturbing event’. 50 Pomeroy (1997), p. 131: IG II2 10650 = CAT 1.660. 51 Hopkins (1983), pp. 222–24.

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Identity and marginality

H

ope (Chapter Six) discusses group membership. The evidence of funerary epigraphy allows one to understand how different sections of ancient societies were being presented or were presenting themselves. In the Roman period a large number of tombstones originate from a military context. The publication of the tombstones from Mainz offers Hope an opportunity to explore material which reflects the town’s function as a military base. But the interest here lies in the different ways legionaries and auxiliary soldiers are represented. The combined analysis of the inscribed and decorative portions of the tombstones reveals a tendency for auxiliary soldiers to be depicted in pictorial form more often than their legionary counterparts. Hope uses these observations to remark on the ways in which group identities are formed. The marginality of the auxiliaries in Roman society is seen to be a crucial feature of the burial practices adopted by this part of the community in Mainz. Hope reveals how identity can be presented in funerary epigraphy. This approach finds interesting parallels with that adopted by van Nijf in his study of associations in the eastern Empire. Funeral arrangements among collegia allowed members of such groups to establish their position and status within the broader social hierarchy.52 Group identity can be investigated through the study of inscribed tombstones. Again it is clear that such studies require a wider context to understand the significance of the way in which groups present themselves.

Cultivating epigraphic habits

A

ll the chapters in this volume deal directly or indirectly with epigraphic habit or, more broadly, epigraphic culture, the environment within which the culture of inscribing was practised and displayed: the relevance of cost to setting up funerary monuments 52 van Nijf (1997), pp. 54–55, 59–60.

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(Chapter Three), the broad trends in erecting habits at Athens in the fifth century (Chapter Two), among Milesians at Athens in the Hellenistic and Roman periods (Chapter Four), the parents of deceased children in Rome (Chapter Five), and the soldiers at Mainz (Chapter Six). The question marks hanging over the nature of ash chests in the Ince-Blundell collections (Chapter Seven) focus on the popularity of inscribing and its importance not only in antiquity but in the recent past. It is becoming increasingly difficult to consider the use of epigraphy as historical evidence without considering the degree to which a society was erecting inscriptions at any one moment or over a period of time. It is also crucial that the context in which inscriptions were viewed should be considered. The epigraphic habits of Greece and Rome have been examined in a number of ways recently. MacMullen has traced the increase in epigraphical output during the Roman Imperial period and found that an increased output of tombstones in North Africa peaked round AD 200.53 Meyer’s more detailed study of tombstones reveals that the phenomenon in North Africa is repeated in the region’s towns: Theveste and Maktar repeat the pattern of the province as a whole.54 Six out of seven towns studied in this region show a common rise in the number of inscriptions between AD 170 and AD 200.55 Meyer attributes the increase to a concern for displaying status, invariably Roman status. But the reaction to achieving Roman status was not reflected everywhere by the epigraphic habit. At Thessalonica, which became a Roman colony around AD 250, the peak of the epigraphic habit was achieved earlier in the 50 years between AD 175 and AD 225.56 Roman status does not seem to explain conditions there. Nor at Athens where a far more complex and lengthy epigraphic history can be reconstructed. A significant rise in Athenian epigraphic habit around AD 200 is found but this rise is obscured by a similar 53 54 55 56

MacMullen (1982), Table IV. Meyer (1990), p. 84, Figs. 2–3. Meyer (1990), p. 87. Meyer (1990), p. 92, Fig. 5.

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peak around AD 100 and complicated further by differences in the epigraphic habits between foreigners and Athenian demesmen.57 For Athens, Meyer suggests the Athenians in the Classical period were displaying pride in their citizenship status. Meyer’s explanations may work for the fifth and fourth centuries BC but the analysis is less convincing when one considers the broader spectrum through to the Roman period. Hedrick has most recently suggested that the production of inscriptions at Athens was sensitive to political change, but not necessarily an index of democracy. He concludes: ‘the causes for the unparalleled abundance of epigraphical writing in Athens are surely complex.’58 The practice of erecting inscribed tombstones in both Greek and Roman cultures must not be set solely against the social background of negotiating one’s place within social hierarchies, establishing one’s status, and conspicuous consumption. The context in which such activities are seen involve the epigraphic habits of these cultures in a broader sense. One might say that they require an understanding of epigraphic culture.59 This involves a considerable amount of further thought and study than is possible here. Historians and epigraphers are now able to make considerable advances in quantifying epigraphic habits given the range of computerized corpora of inscriptions now available. But are we any nearer reaching an understanding of epigraphic habit? MacMullen had no firm answer. He had felt that the change in epigraphic habits might not coincide with changes of a demographic or even economic nature.60 The contrast that he found between the papyrological and epigraphical record prompted him to remark that the difference between the two media was to be found in the addressee: papyri were directed to specific individuals, inscriptions to ‘nobody in particular—rather, the whole community’.61 Meyer’s emphasis on 57 58 59 60 61

Meyer (1993), p. 100, Figs. 1–2. Hedrick (1999), p. 408. Gordon et al. (1993), p. 155 n. 402. MacMullen (1982), p. 245. MacMullen (1982), p. 246.

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citizenship and status is useful, but it does not present a complete picture either. Epigraphic habit or culture must embrace more than just the tombstones. Meyer correctly compares numbers of epitaphs against inscriptions in general in her figures. But inscriptions should not be seen in isolation from other forms of display. In the context of burial, one can not understand inscribed burial markers without thinking also about the sculptured and decorative work which goes with them. In addition, burial must also embrace what archaeological material is presented in any associated excavation. For epigraphy as a whole, there is considerable danger if the inscribed monuments are divorced from the monuments on which they were cut. Methodological problems are deepened if the physical environment in which such inscribed monuments were viewed is ignored: ‘the historian’s tendency to treat inscriptions as a special kind of text needs to be modified, in other words, with a recognition that they are also a special kind of monument.’62

The epigraphy of death

T

his collection of essays has its origins in a conference, ‘Funerary Inscriptions: Problems and Prospects’, held at The University of Liverpool (24 January 1995) organised by Dr G. J. Oliver and Dr E. G. Clark. Some time has elapsed since the original papers were delivered, and further thought and rewriting has been absorbed in the versions that are presented here. Interest in burial practices has exploded in recent years: the emphasis in this introduction has been to indicate some areas of recent work which touch on the themes and material which can be found in the contributions to this book. However, it will be obvious that the coverage is selective and in no way complete. There are also many areas that the contributions to this volume 62 Woolf (1996), p. 28.

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do not cover: The Epigraphy of Death does not intend to be exhaustive in its scope but indicative of the way in which epigraphical evidence can be used. The hope is that the focus on the epigraphical evidence of the tombstones should not encourage inscriptions to be studied in isolation from related material. The epigraphic material needs to be integrated with the study of sculptural and decorative masonry, finds from archaeological excavations and broader archaeological contexts. The analysis of ceramic evidence, important research in iconography and in other materials associated with burial assemblages must all be considered in understanding the processes of burial practices. But this volume is not primarily dedicated to the development of understanding burial practices per se but suggests ways in which epigraphy can play a central role in advancing our understanding of ancient culture. The sort of integrated approach to epigraphical culture advocated here has existed for some time: archaeological epigraphy is one term that has been used to describe similar operations.63 It is probably presumptuous to call such an approach ‘new epigraphy’.64

63 Jameson (1999), p. 698. 64 The views expressed in this chapter are the author’s; any mistakes are his too. I would like to thank Professor Michael Crawford, Miss Joyce Reynolds and Mrs Charlotte Roueché for their energy in creating The British Epigraphy Society. This organisation has succeeded in providing an important platform for discussing and thinking about the role of epigraphy in Great Britain and an excellent new opportunity for epigraphers to discuss their material.

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Bibliography Alcock, S. E. (1991), ‘Tomb Cult and the Post-Classical Polis’, AJA 95, pp. 447–67. Beard, M. and J. Henderson (1995), Classics. A very short introduction, Oxford. Bodel, J. (1997), ‘Monumental villas and villa monuments’, JRA 10, pp. 5–35. Colvin, H. (1991), Architecture and the After-life, New Haven and London. Clairmont, C. (1983), Classical Attic Tombstones. Introductory Volume, Kilchberg. Cormack, S. (1997), ‘Funerary monuments and mortuary practice in Roman Asia Minor’, in The Early Roman Empire in the East, ed. S. E. Alcock, Oxford, pp. 137–56. Curl, J. S. (1972), The Victorian Celebration of Death, London. Curl, J. S. (1980), A Celebration of Death: An Introduction to some of the Buildings, Monuments and Settings of the Funerary Architecture in the Western European Tradition, New York. Duncan-Jones, R. (1982), The Economy of the Roman Empire: Quantitative Studies, 2nd edn, Cambridge. Eyben, E. (1991), ‘Fathers and sons’, in Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome, ed. B. Rawson, Canberra and Oxford, pp. 114–45. Garland, R. S. J. (1982), ‘A First Catalogue of Attic Peribolos Tombs’, BSA 77, pp. 125–76. Garland, R. S. J. (1985), The Greek Way of Death, London. Garland, R. S. J. (1990), The Greek Way of Life from Conception to Old Age, London. Golden, M. (1990), Children and Childhood in Classical Athens, Baltimore and London. Gordon, R., M. Beard, J. Reynolds and C. Roueché (1993), ‘Roman Inscriptions 1986–90’, JRS 83, pp. 131–58. Hall, J. M. (1997), Ethnic identity in Greek antiquity, Cambridge. Hansen, M. H. et al. (1990), ‘The demography of Attic demes: the evidence of sepulchral inscriptions’, ARID 19, pp. 25–44. Hedrick, C. W. (1999), ‘Democracy and the Athenian epigraphical habit’, Hesperia 68, pp. 387–439.

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Hope, V. (1997), ‘A roof over the dead: communal tombs and family structure’, in Domestic Space in the Roman World: Pompeii and Beyond, JRA Supplementary Series no. 22, ed. R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill, Portsmouth, USA, pp. 69–88. Hopkins, K. (1983), Death and Renewal, Cambridge. Houby-Nielsen, S. H. (1995), ‘“Burial Language” in Archaic and Classical Kerameikos’, Proceedings of the Danish Institute at Athens 1, pp. 129–91. Houby-Nielsen, S. H. (1998), ‘Revival of Archaic Funerary Practices in the Hellenistic and Roman Kerameikos’, Proceedings of the Danish Institute at Athens 2, pp. 127–45. Humphreys, S. C. (1980), ‘Family tombs and tomb cult in ancient Athens—tradition or traditionalism?’, JHS 100, pp. 96–126, reprinted in S. C. Humphreys, The Family, Women and Death, London, 1983, pp. 79–130. Huskinson, J. (1996), Roman Children’s Sarcophagi: their Decoration and its Social Significance, Oxford. Jameson, M. H. (1999), ‘Antony Erich Raubitschek, 1912–1999’, AJA 103, pp. 697–98. Kleijwegt, M. (1991), Ancient Youth. The ambiguity of youth and the absence of adolescence in Greco-Roman society, Amsterdam. Kyle, D. G. (1998), Spectacles of Death in Ancient Rome, London. Lambert, S. D. (forthcoming), ‘The Greek inscriptions on stone in the British School of Athens’, BSA 95. MacMullen, R. (1982), ‘The epigraphic habit in the Roman Empire’, AJP 103, pp. 233–46. Martin, D. B. (1996), ‘The construction of the ancient family: methodological considerations’, JRS 86, pp. 40–60. Meyer, E. A. (1990), ‘Explaining the epigraphic pattern in the Roman Empire: the evidence of epitaphs’, JRS 80, pp. 74–96. Meyer, E. A. (1993), ‘Epitaphs and Citizenship in Classical Athens’, JHS 113, pp. 99–121. Michaelis, A. (1882), Ancient Marbles in Great Britain, Cambridge. Michaelis, A. (1884), ‘Ancient Marbles in Great Britain. Supplement I’, JHS 5, pp. 143–61.

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Michaelis, A. (1885), ‘Ancient Marbles in Great Britain. Supplement II’, JHS 6, pp. 30–49. Morris, I. (1992), Death-Ritual and Social Structure in Classical Antiquity, Cambridge. Osborne, M. J. and S. Byrne (1996), The Foreign Residents of Athens. An Annex to the Lexicon of Greek Personal Names: Attica, Leuven. Parker, R. (1983), Miasma. Pollution and Purification in early Greek Religion, Oxford. Parker-Pearson, M. (1982), ‘Mortuary practices, society and ideology: an ethnoarchaeological study’, in Symbolic and Structural Archaeology, ed. I. Hodder, Cambridge, pp. 99–113. Pomeroy, S. B. (1997), Families in Classical and Hellenistic Greece. Representations and Realities, Oxford. Purcell, N. (1997), ‘Regulating funerary space and groves at Luceria and Rome’, JRA 10, pp. 340–42. Ramage, N. H. (1996), ‘Disiecta membra and 18th-century restorations of Roman sculpture’, AJA 100, pp. 390–91. Rawson, B. (1991), ‘Adult–child relationships in Rome’, in Marriage, Divorce and Children in Ancient Rome, ed. B. Rawson, Canberra and Oxford, pp. 7–30. Rawson, B., ed. (1997a), The Roman Family in Italy. Status, Sentiment, Space, Canberra and Oxford. Rawson, B. (1997b), ‘The iconography of Roman childhood’, in The Roman Family in Italy. Status, Sentiment, Space, ed. B. Rawson, Canberra and Oxford, pp. 205–32. St. Clair, W. (1998), Lord Elgin and the Marbles, third revised edition, Oxford. Small, D. B. (1995), ‘Monuments, laws, and analysis: combining archaeology and text in ancient Athens’, in Methods in the Mediterranean. Historical and archaeological views on texts and archaeology, ed. D. B. Small, Leiden, pp. 143–74. Strang, J. (1831), Necropolis Glasguensis with observations on Ancient and modern Tombs and Sepulture. Strauss, B. S. (1993), Fathers and Sons in Athens. Ideology and society in the era of the Peloponnesian war, London.

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van Nijf, O. M. (1997), The Civic World of Professional Associations in the Roman East, Amsterdam. Vermeule, C. (1955), ‘Notes on a new edition of Michaelis: Ancient Marbles in Great Britain’, AJA 59, pp. 129–50. Vermeule, C. and D. von Bothmer (1956), ‘Notes on a new edition of Michaelis: Ancient Marbles in Great Britain. Part two’, AJA 60, pp. 321–50. Vermeule, C. and D. von Bothmer (1959a), ‘Notes on a new edition of Michaelis: Ancient Marbles in Great Britain. Part three: 1’, AJA 63, pp. 139–66. Vermeule, C. and D. von Bothmer (1959b), ‘Notes on a new edition of Michaelis: Ancient Marbles in Great Britain. Part three: 2’, AJA 63, pp. 329–48. Woolf, G. (1996), ‘Monumental writing and the expansion of Roman society in the early Roman empire’, JRS 86, pp. 22–39.

CHAPTER TWO

The Times They Are A’Changing: Developments in Fifth-Century Funerary Sculpture Karen Stears Introduction

F

ew funerary monuments can have been the focus for as much study as those originating in fifth- and fourth-century Attica. They have long been the subject of specialist investigations by both epigraphers and art historians. Their constant production from the end of the fifth to the end of the fourth century provided an admirable opportunity for the establishment of relative chronologies useful for the respective disciplines on a wider level. Also the sheer beauty and craftsmanship of the finest of the memorials have, unsurprisingly, led some of the pieces to be considered as ‘works of art’ in their own right. Thanataologists too have analyzed the epigrams and iconography in exhaustive detail in order to reconstruct Athenian attitudes towards death and the afterlife. In recent years the monuments have served as a basis for more broad-ranging studies by historians reconstructing the social and political dynamics of the period. Indeed some of the newest work employs them in an

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attempt to postulate wide-ranging historical change throughout the Greek world. That objects of material culture should be employed by historians together with texts to create a richer picture of Athenian, and even panhellenic, history is laudable and overdue. However, as with any specialist discipline utilized by those interested in broader issues, there is always the danger that some of the problems of the subject area are glossed over and opinions are cited as ‘facts’. It is unsurprising that this should be the case with inscribed and sculpted funerary monuments whose very study is fragmented by the disparate interests and aims of the artistic and epigraphic corpora within which they are published. Inscriptions are divorced from accompanying sculptural reliefs and whole monuments are separated from their archaeological context, all of which is a hindrance rather than an aid to research by the non-specialist. Many of these problems should be overcome by the new CD-ROM database of Classical monuments assembled by Johannes Bergemann which is itself largely based on Christoph Clairmont’s magnum opus Classical Attic Tombstones (CAT). The availability of such a fully indexed and cross-referenced database will no doubt spawn more and revealing interdisciplinary studies. This is especially the case for the fifth century. The appearance of the third edition of Inscriptiones Graecae, volume I, has shed new light on the chronology of these funerary memorials. The aim of this paper is to utilize these new collections of material, viz. CAT and IG I3, in order to reassess some of the most hotly-debated issues concerning the late Archaic and early Classical funerary monuments: the disappearance of the former and the appearance of the latter. In so doing I make no apologies for looking at the small-scale picture, both temporally and geographically; grand theories need firm foundations. The history of Attic cemeteries and grave monuments throughout the course of the fifth century is deceptively simple in outline, yet frustratingly complex, even obscure, in detail. For the first one to two decades of the century elaborate and presumably expensive sculpted stone stelai and statues, in the sculptural style termed late Archaic, were erected in Attic graveyards. These disappeared relatively rapidly

Developments in Fifth-Century Funerary Sculpture

27

and sculpted funerary monuments did not reappear until some time in the third quarter of the century. How tombs were marked in the intervening period is somewhat uncertain, as are the reasons for the end of the Archaic burial marker and the appearance of the Classical monument. The relationship of these phenomena to the immediate historical context is likewise unclear: the growth of the democracy; the Persian and Peloponnesian Wars; the plague; legislative measures, both secure and putative; the establishment of the annual public funeral for the war dead; all of these have been postulated as playing some part in the demise and rise of the private burial monument and have also been used as aids in establishing an absolute chronology. In this paper I shall consider these issues and, at the risk of being termed functionalist, will associate them in various degrees to the funerary material itself. This will be attempted only after trying to establish a chronology for the monuments by means of the monuments themselves and their archaeological contexts. I shall deal with the phenomena in their chronological order but in so doing I should emphasize that I am not attempting to produce an unproblematic and coherent ‘narrative’, be it archaeological, historical, ritual or cultural; a simple approach need not be simplistic.

The archaeology: the end of the Archaic monument

T

he beginning of the fifth century saw the continuation of a commemorative tradition within Attic cemeteries that stretched back to the seventh century, whereby some of the graves of the wealthy elite were marked with kouroi, korai or tall shaft-stelai. Numbers of these monuments appear to have been relatively small, suggesting that it was a practice by which the aristocratic minority reified their privilege along the roadsides of the polis. Even after the Cleisthenic reforms which had so radically altered the political face of the city-state, or indeed perhaps because of them, those

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Figure 2.1: Grave monument of Aristodikos, c. 500–490 BC, from Anavyssos (IG I3 1244; NM 3938).

Developments in Fifth-Century Funerary Sculpture

29

with wealth spent considerable sums of money recording familial members by means of imposing, permanent monuments. There are 45 inscribed sepulchral monuments possibly dated between c. 510–c. 480 listed in IG I3. Some of are exceptional quality: notably the kouros of Aristodikos (IG I3 1244, Athens NM 3938 c. 500–c. 490; see Figure 2.1) and the stele of Antigenes (IG I3 1276, MM NY 15.167 c. 510–c. 500), both found in the Attic countryside. The Kerameikos, the most prestigious private urban cemetery located next to the public cemetery of the polis, has also yielded sculpture of fine workmanship, although unfortunately in a fragmentary state, in the discovery of a kouros head, Kerameikos P1145.1 Stylistically linked, by the execution of its hairstyle, to the kouros of Aristodikos and another late kouros Louvre MND 890, it has added importance because of both its find-spot and secure stratigraphy which assure both its use as a funerary monument and its date of c. 500–c. 480. Kerameikos P1145 confirms the epigraphic chronology which assigns grave-markers right down to the end of the Persian Wars. However, although Kerameikos P1145, as with other late Archaic funerary monuments, admits no decline in workmanship from previous decades, it would appear that there was a fall in actual numbers of sculpted funerary monuments erected by individuals after c. 500. This may correlate to a similar phenomenon witnessed in the numbers of equestrian statues dedicated on the Acropolis during the same period.2 The counting of actual numbers and the comparison of one generation with another is a dangerous game, particularly when we are dealing with small numbers of objects, relative chronologies and continuing excavations. But for the moment this change in both funerary and votive practices, albeit gradual, does appear to be ‘real’. The late Archaic funerary monuments finally disappear altogether by c. 480. Further disruption is also visible in the Kerameikos post-c. 510, where the vast tumulus known as the ‘Sudhügel’ and identified as the burial site of the Peisistratids, was 1 2

Knigge (1983). Payne and Young (1936), p. 38; Stewart (1990), pp. 131–32.

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Figure 2.2: Grave monument of Nautes son of Eudemides of Torone, c. 407 BC, from the Kerameikos (IG I3 1377; NM 2588).

Developments in Fifth-Century Funerary Sculpture

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leveled out by the dumping of vast quantities of earth and ordinary tombs cut into it.3

Post-c. 480 BC

T

he editors of IG I3 tentatively assign only four stone funerary monuments to the 470s: IG I3 1280 (c. 475–450); 1341 (c. 475–450?); 1355 (c. 475–440?) and 1358 (c. 475–450?). All are small stelai whose chronology is scarcely secure. Interestingly however, three of the stones commemorated non-Athenians who are also surprisingly well represented in the larger group of 39, small monuments of poor quality dating chiefly to the decade c. 450–c. 440. Most of these are roughly carved rectangular stelai. But on a few examples the top of the stone has been finished more carefully by the addition of a moulding (e.g. IG I3 1343; 1346; 1356; 1360; 1361) or painted decoration (e.g. IG I3 1371, an anthemion; 1377 [see Figure 2.2]; 1378, fillets). All of the simply decorated stelai are for foreigners. IG I3 1237bis has a curved top surface together with traces of paint; its inscription does not include an ethnic, but the editors note that the name recorded is possibly Eretrian. IG I3 1282 is the single example of a monument with relief decoration dated as early as ‘c. 450?’ by the editors. The fragmentary relief shows part of a bearded man facing to the right; the inscription is Ionic in form and the editors postulate that the craftsman who produced it may have been an Ionian. The fact that of these plain monuments those with even the simplest type of decoration, sculptural or pictorial, seem to have commemorated non-Athenians is noteworthy and may not be without significance. Apart from these few modest examples most graves through the second quarter of the fifth century do not appear to have been marked in an archaeologically visible manner. There are some monumental burials from the period, most famously the small 3

Kerameikos IX.

Figure 2.3: Plan of the Kerameikos (based on the state plan provided by the Deutsches Archäologisches Institut).

32 The Epigraphy of Death

Developments in Fifth-Century Funerary Sculpture

33

mounds (L–O) and mud-brick tombs (d–f). This sequence of mounds dates between c. 490–c. 425 and was built on the western margins of the great Mound G, built in the 560s (see Figure 2.3).4 The exceptional nature of these mounds for this period in the fifth century perhaps led to them being depicted on white-ground lekythoi, oil jugs made especially for funerary ritual and found relatively commonly as grave goods in this period.5 Paintings of visits to the tomb become frequent on Athenian white-ground lekythoi from c. 470 onward and continue down to the end of the century (see Figure 2.4).6 Some of the monuments also depict simple stelai which may reflect the small memorials mentioned above. Examples, attributed to the Inscription Painter, portray stelai with inscriptions. One is even readable and begins EN BYZAN.7 They were probably attempts to record the casualty lists set up annually as state memorials in the dêmosion sêma which appear to have been erected continuously from c. 490 onwards (IG I3 1142–93bis).8 Most of the white-ground lekythoi, however, are decorated with monuments which bear no relation to the memorials we know from the period. They appear to be freestanding columns surmounted by huge acanthus finials. The discrepancy between these representations and the actual archaeology has led to a plethora of explanations: the originals must have been wooden9 or of a ‘more perishable material’ than stone;10 4

Kerameikos VII, i, pp. 5–21, 63–90, Beilage 25.1; Morris (1992a), p. 136, fig. 29; Morris (1994), pp. 76–77 and nn. 44–46 for relevant bibliography. 5 Morris (1992a), pp. 111–16. 6 Fairbanks (1907–14); Kurtz (1975); Nakayama (1982); Baldassare (1988); I thank Brian A. Sparkes for his helpful remarks on the chronology of white-ground lekythoi. 7 Morris (1994), pp. 78–79. 8 See Clairmont (1983). 9 Karouzou (1956); Humphreys (1980). 10 Ridgway (1981): the apparent absence of post-holes or other foundations to support such monuments argues against these hypotheses. See Clairmont (1983), p. 36 for a discussion of post-holes in the Kerameikos which may have supported the wooden podium erected for the delivery of the epitaphios logos.

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Figure 2.4: Attic white-ground lekythos by the Inscription Painter, second quarter of the fifth century BC, from Eretria (ARV2 748, no. 2; NM 1958).

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they are not tombs but altars;11 they are sarcophagi;12 they are fantasies of what was desired but unattainable in the cemetery.13 The relation of these painted scenes to the archaeological record is undoubtedly complex. Many of the images are indeed fantastic when compared to our extant memorials, whilst the work of the Inscription Painter does prove that at least some artists were drawing on what was visible nearby; pottery workshops were located within the Kerameikos suburb. A further small and largely ignored group of images may also be classified as an attempt at verisimilitude. The Tymbos Painter was active in the third quarter of the fifth century and, as his name suggests, specialised in painting tombs; his work is distinguished by a concentration on the portrayal of figures. Some of his scenes depict a figure sitting in front of a stylized tumulus and give the impression of a stele decorated with relief whilst, more interestingly, others of his pots appear to portray actual sculpted or decorated stelai.14 It may well be that his tumulus scenes intend to portray the corpse within the tumulus, but what of the scenes which are definite representations of sculpture?15 Of immediate note is the form of his stelai: all are broad and with one exception are crowned by pediments. Portrayed upon them are images of women, facing right, mostly seated on klismoi, with one example of a standing woman. These figures hold mirrors or fillets/garlands and the milieu of the scenes is undoubtedly domestic16 and very reminiscent of the iconography of the Classical 11 12 13 14 15 16

Rupp (1980). Rupp (1983). Humphreys (1980). ARV2 s.v.754. Kurtz (1975), p. 205. There are six examples in all: Louvre MNB 3059, ARV2 754.14, Kurtz (1975), p. 205, 22.1: flat-topped stele, seated woman with mirror. All other examples are pedimental stele: Berlin Staat. Mus. 3324, ARV2 754.11, Fairbanks (1907), p. 314, 29: seated woman with fillet/garland; Tübingen Univ. E 64, ARV2 754.7, Nakayama (1982), GB.IV.2: seated woman with fillet/garland; Basel art market (once Elgin coll.) ARV2 754.9, Fairbanks (1907), p. 312, 26a, Nakayama (1982), GB.IV.3: seated woman with fillet/garland; New York art

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Figure 2.5: Grave monument of Eupheros, c. 430–25 BC, from the Kerameikos (IG I3 1283; Kerameikos Museum, P 1169: © DAI Athen neg. KER8516).

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Athenian funerary stelai. These lekythoi, as we shall see, are of some importance in the debate concerning the date of the first Classical Attic funerary monuments.17

The introduction of the Classical monument

T

he central problem concerning the introduction of the Classical monument is identifying a possible date for the appearance of the earliest sculpted memorials which is acceptable to both epigraphers and sculptural historians. In this connection the most valuable of the early stelai is that of Eupheros (see Figure 2.5), excavated in the Kerameikos over the summer of 1964.18 The stele market (once Matsch coll.) ARV2 754.3, CVA Vienna I pl. 9, 5: standing woman wrapped in himation with mirror; ?Athens priv. coll. ARV2 754.10, Fairbanks (1907), p. 312, 27 fig. 56: woman seated on a diphros. 17 The Tymbos Painter’s iconography is unique. A further four lekythoi attributed to the Sabouroff Painter and to the Thanatos Painter are decorated with scenes on which stelai are surmounted by freestanding sculpture. Two examples show a woman seated on a klismos, one with a naked boy sitting on the ground in front of her, and two examples depict a standing youth. The career of the Sabouroff Painter stretched throughout the first half of the fifth century; that of the Thanatos Painter is slightly later. Thanatos Painter: Bonn Univ. CVA Bonn I 66 pls. 43.2; 44.4: flat-topped stele surmounted by a naked youth; Sabouroff Painter: Boston MFA 10.220, ARV2 845.170, Fairbanks (1914), pp. 256ff, 14a pl. 37, Nakayama (1982), GB.II.1: flat-topped stele surmounted by a woman, facing right, seated on a klismos, ?left hand to her head, right hand holds a ?mirror. A woman standing right of the stele offers up a lekythos to her; Athens NM 1815, ARV2 845.169, Fairbanks (1907), p. 268, 14, Nakayama (1982), GB.III.2: flat-topped stele surmounted by a woman seated facing left holding out a bunch of grapes to a naked boy seated at her feet; unattributed lekythos dated to middle of the fifth century, Dunedin Otago Mus. JHS 56 (1936), pp. 235ff, pl. 14: flat-topped stele surmounted by a standing youth wrapped in a himation holding a staff. Boston MFA 01.8080, ARV2 1231 (nr. the Thanatos Painter) Kurtz (1975), p. 210, pl. 31.1a,b, on which two diminutive male nudes are situated either side of a gable in which a boxing scene is shown may be an altar, see Rupp (1980). 18 Kerameikos P 1169, IG I3 1283, CAT 1.081, Schlörb-Vierneisel (1964).

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of Eupheros is a monument of exceptional quality, 1.47 metres in height, which shows a youth, draped in a himation and perhaps wearing a headband, standing facing right and holding a strigil in his left hand. Above the figure is a pediment with akroteria carved in relief, in the horizontal geison of which is the inscription Eupheros. In the recessed centre of the pediment traces of two painted animals, panthers or lions, were found and above the pediment vestiges of painted fillets. Traces of the blue background of the slab were also visible soon after excavation, as was an area of red paint around the base. All of this indicates that the stele must have been buried relatively soon after its erection. The stele was found together with a smaller fragmentary plain pedimental stele,19 which was decorated with a painted fillet around its shaft and inscribed with the name Lissos directly beneath the horizontal geison. The importance of these two monuments is that they were found in situ within the so-called Kindernekropole which lay south of the Sacred Way and first began to be used in the 440s. The Eupheros stele was associated with grave hS 202 in which was found a wooden sarcophagus containing the well preserved skeleton of a youth (1.35 m in length) and a fine selection of grave-goods including a red-figure oinochoe and six white-ground lekythoi. The Lissos stele stood over grave hS 193 which cut through the deeper and slightly earlier grave of Eupheros. Grave hS 193 was lined with clay tiles and contained the skeleton of a boy (1.30 m in length) and a number of gravegoods including four white-ground lekythoi, a red-figure lekythos and a terracotta protome of a woman in a peplos. Both the stratigraphy of these tombs and their pottery afford the opportunity of dating them relatively accurately, which is of particular utility in furnishing a chronological context for the stele of Eupheros and hence for the earliest stelai as a whole. Lekythos e from the grave of Eupheros is one of the finest and best preserved. It shows a visit to a tomb: some sort of pillar adorned with double-volute and palmette and bearing no resemblance to the 19 IG I3 1294, Kerameikos I 417.

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stele which marked the tomb in which it was found. It has been assigned to the circle of the Woman Painter and should date to the early 420s.20 The red-figure oinochoe has a similar date secured by its similarity to the work of the Schuwalow Painter. The pottery of the grave of Lissos appears to be somewhat younger than that deposited with Eupheros and is generally in a much worse state of preservation. The terracotta protome is similar to two other protomai found in a marble sarcophagus in the Kerameikos which was dated, somewhat broadly, to the ‘Parthenonzeit’. Thus the ceramics of grave hS 202 would date the burial to c. 430 to c. 425 and this is also the date proposed by the editors of IG I3 for the inscription Eupheros. Excavator and epigraphers both date the grave and monument of Lissos about five years later. The Eupheros stele must also date to c. 430 to c. 425. Schlörb-Vierneisel has discussed at some length the stylistic details of the piece.21 Iconographically the stele is reminiscent of the Island stelai of the early to middle fifth century, with its single figure in stark profile, but the use of the himation is rather unusual in the Island examples. The overall stance of the body, and the execution of a number of details, particularly the rim of the eye, must find comparison in the stele of the children Mnesagora and Nikochares.22 A regional style, Boiotian, has been discerned in both these monuments. It may well be that they were executed by a Boiotian attracted to Athens by the prospect of work on the Parthenon; certainly the stele of Eupheros displays characteristics typical of the youths found on Parthenon north frieze. The appearance of both regional and Parthenon styles in the first Classical Athenian grave monuments is well known, if not undisputed. For instance, Athens NM 713, found in the Piraeus, is strongly Thessalian in style and has been dated, by comparison to the Thessalian series of reliefs, to c. 450.23 Diepolder recognised both 20 21 22 23

Schlörb-Vierneisel (1964), p. 100. Schlörb-Vierneisel (1964), pp. 101–04. IG I3 1315 = IG II2 12147, CAT 1.610. Biesantz (1965), K54 pl. 1; Conze (1893–1922), 36 pl. 15; Clairmont does not recognise it as Attic and excludes it from CAT, see Clairmont (1986).

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Island and Boiotian influences in the poor quality (?and reworked) stele of Aristylla and Rodilla, also found in the Piraeus, whilst Clairmont discerned links with the maidens of the east frieze of the Parthenon.24 Diepolder dated the relief to the 430s, Clairmont to c. 430–c. 420, the editors of IG I3 more loosely to c. 430–400 (?). The stele most commonly associated with the Parthenon is that of the Xanthippos, the cobbler (?), the chief figure on which has been compared to both the Apollo and Poseidon of the east frieze.25 The stele of the bronze-smith Sosinos from Gortyn is also very close to the gods of the east frieze.26 The form and style of the stele of Eupheros, taken together with these other early examples, suggests that, in the third quarter of the fifth century, sculptors who had travelled from elsewhere in the Greek world to work on the Parthenon found additional employment in the production of private gravestones. This is not controversial; what is open to debate is when they began this production. The earliest of the Parthenon sculptures are the metopes which can be assigned to the initial period of the building’s construction from 447 onwards;27 the frieze to which the gravestones are most clearly related is slightly later, c. 445–c. 435.28 The stele of Eupheros with its clear stylistic references to the north frieze, but which must date to c. 430 at the earliest, reveals the immediate impact and influence of the Parthenon frieze, an influence which lasts throughout the course of the monuments in the following century.29 But, stylistically, the stele of Eupheros is not the earliest of the fifth-century Classical monuments. It is certainly predated by the Thessalian-style stele Athens NM 713, for which I can see no reason for not accepting as an Athenian memorial. The Eupheros stele must also date after the beautiful standing maiden on the fragmentary stele Athens NM 24 25 26 27 28 29

IG I3 1311, CAT 2.051; Diepolder (1931), p. 8; Clairmont (1970), s.v. no. 27. London BM 628, IG I3 1282bis = IG II2 12332, CAT 1.630. Louvre 769, IG I3 1349bis, CAT 1.202. Brommer (1967), pp. 174ff. Brommer (1977), pp. 171ff, 276ff; Ashmole (1972), pp. 126, 141. Stewart (1990), p. 167.

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910 (CAT 1.050) which is very close to stelai sculpted in the Cycladic islands.30 It must also follow the fragmentary Athens NM 3254 which likewise portrays a maiden in profile;31 both the figures hold pyxides. In sum, on stylistic grounds we must conclude that the very earliest gravestones in the Classical style were set up in the 430s, perhaps even in the 440s. This opinion is not new: it was first postulated by Diepolder in 1930. However, as historians have looked for a specific context or spur for the reintroduction of sculpted monuments in Attica, the sculptures themselves, as we shall see, have been somewhat sidelined. Archaeology and art history have been sacrificed on the altar of hypothesis. The early sculpted monuments are not produced in great number. From their inception down to c. 390 there are around 140 extant naiskoi and Bildfeldstelen and most of these date from around the turn of the century.32 The iconography of the memorials also deserves brief comment. The majority of the earliest sculpted Classical naiskoi and Bildfeldstelen were erected on the graves of women, most commonly portraying them as seated in a domestic setting, a scene common in Attic pottery both on white-ground lekythoi and in red-figure. Men are found in a greater variety of scenes, as soldiers, seated in himatia, as athletes and as hunters, but in total there are fewer examples of sculpted monuments for men than for women.33 The preponderance of women represented in Classical Athenian funerary sculpture is in strong contrast to the Archaic commemorative practice in which korai and stelai portraying women are rare. To conclude this summary of fifth century funerary monuments we should note that from c. 430 to 425 some Athenian families, perhaps 10 per cent of the population,34 began to arrange their 30 31 32 33 34

Hiller (1975); Schmaltz (1983), p. 199. CAT 1.080/2.080; Schmaltz (1983), p. 199. Bergemann (1997), pp. 158–60, 181. Stears (1995); Bergemann (1997), ch. 5 and pp. 223–26. Morris (1994), p. 82.

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burials and associated memorials. They separated them off from the rest of the cemetery and distinguished the familial group within walled enclosures, periboloi.35

The context

P

roviding an historical context for the phenomena summarized above implies an integration of the archaeological material with the textual record. However, as we shall see, constructing an account of the period in which neither text nor material culture has primacy is a complex procedure and one not without problems or, indeed, ideologies.36 The text most analyzed in relation to the end of the Archaic funerary monument is Cicero de legibus II.64–65 where a funerary law is cited and assigned to the period some time between Solon and Demetrius of Phalerum. This measure has been taken by many scholars to account for changes in, or the demise of, the Archaic funerary monument although such an approach has been recently strongly criticized by Morris:37 ‘A legalistic approach impoverishes the potential of cultural history. Nothing has done so much to limit the use of classical Athenian burial evidence as the notion that Cicero’s post aliquanto law “explains” the material’.38 I agree with Morris that a purely legalistic approach does not fully account for the social or political complexities and contradictions of the period. However I would not advocate that a law ‘explains’ material culture; to dismiss a text as an impediment rather than an aid to fuller understanding seems to be throwing the baby out with the bath water. Therefore, like so many before me, I shall begin with Cicero’s text: 35 Humphreys (1980); Garland (1982); Morris (1992a); Stears (1995); Morris (1994); Bergemann (1997). 36 Morris (1992b, 1994); Small (1995). 37 E.g. Eckstein (1958); Boardman (1955), p. 53; Richter (1961), pp. 37–39; Zinserling (1965); Clairmont (1970), p. 11; Stupperich (1977), pp. 71–85. 38 Morris (1994), p. 89 n. 43.

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sed post aliquanto propter has amplitudines sepulchorum, quas in Ceramico videmus, lege sanctum est, ne quis sepulchrum faceret operiosus quam quod decem homines effecerint triduo; neque id opere tectorio exonari, nec hermas, quos vocant, licebat imponi, nec de mortui laude nisi publicis sepulturis nec ab alio, nisi qui publice ad eam rem constitutus esset, dici licebat. sublata etiam erat celebritas virorum ac mulierum, quo lamentatio minueretur; auget enim luctum concursus hominum. (Cicero, de legibus, II.64–65) But somewhat later, on account of the enormous size of the tombs which we now see in the Kerameikos, it was provided by law that no one should build one which was grander than ten men could accomplish in three days. Nor was it permitted to adorn one with opus tectorium, nor to place upon it Hermae as they call them. It was not permitted to speak in praise of the dead except at public funerals, and then only by one who had been publicly appointed for the purpose. Large gatherings of men and women were also forbidden, in order to lessen lamentation; for a crowd increases grief.

Cicero’s source for his account of Athenian funerary legislation was the fourth-century Athenian dictator Demetrius of Phalerum who produced a compilation of previous sumptuary measures. Demetrius’s collection may have served as a legitimizing precursor for his own acts. It may well be that in Cicero’s text we are dealing with a Latin translation of an Athenian decree. The law mentioned here by Cicero can be dated with some certainty to the early 470s by its reference to the introduction of public funerary speeches. According to Diodorus Siculus, funerary speeches were introduced after the battle of Plataea.39 This date implies that the law cannot be used to explain changes in Archaic funerary monuments, as has long been argued, but probably accounts, instead, for their complete disappearance from the archaeological record at c. 480. The wider context for this measure is no doubt to be found in the growing confidence of the burgeoning democracy after the battles of Salamis and Plataea. It is likely that the removal of the 39 Diodorus Siculus 11.33.3; Stupperich (1977), p. 220; Thomas (1989), p. 207.

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Peisistratids and the Cleisthenic reforms of the previous generation had paved the way for some social changes. These may be witnessed in the disappearance of votive equestrian statues on the Acropolis following c. 510. A passion for horses may have been too strongly linked not only with aristocratic expenditure in general, but more specifically with Hippias and Hipparchos, whose very names intimate familial leisure interests. The decline in the number of funerary monuments erected in the same period may also indicate a similar unease among certain eupatrid families to erect costly permanent funerary memorials. Perhaps it was becoming socially or politically unacceptable to spend large sums of money on private sculpture particularly to glorify the memory of one’s own family connections. However, that fine quality, expensive sculpted monuments, as we have seen, continue to be set up right down to the second Persian invasion suggests that by no means all the elite was swayed by such new sensitivities. At the end of the sixth and early fifth centuries we find elements of structural changes in social and political attitudes toward private burial rites among both the elite and the masses: the institution of the annual public funeral for the war dead in the last decade of the sixth century;40 the construction of the Marathon soros;41 the general fall in numbers of Archaic sculpted monuments after c. 510; and the introduction of the public funerary speech.42 The post aliquanto law prohibiting and limiting various types of tomb is but another witness to these changes. It may well have been proposed by a member of the aristocracy who sought to gain political advantage in opposing the burial traditions of his own class by advocating a consciously populist measure. The legislation has been associated with Themistocles, one of the most consciously populist politicians of the day,43 but could, more controversially, equally be a measure proposed by his great 40 41 42 43

Stupperich (1994), p. 93. Whitley (1994). Humphreys (1980); Loraux (1986); Thomas (1989). Zinserling (1965); Clairmont (1970).

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rival, Cimon the son of Miltiades. For the terms of the decree, ironically enough, ensured that Athenian burial practices were now unusually close in spirit to those found in Sparta. Cimon was famous for his philolakonism. Spartan burial customs denied the erection of private grave memorials to all men except those who had died in war and those women who had perished in childbirth; that is to say, private burial in Sparta was a form of public commemoration.44 Might Cimon, or one of his associates, have put forward the post aliquanto law in conscious imitation of Spartan practice, whereby the right to commemorate the dead by means of inscribed funerary markers was a privilege granted only to those who had fallen in service of the polis? In Athens such commemoration took the form of the annual public funeral and monument in the state cemetery and was performed by tribe rather than family or deme, a military association somewhat reminiscent, in function, of the syssition.45 I do not suggest that the legislation was presented to the Athenian assembly in any other than the most democratic terms, but the egalitarianism of Athenian citizenship in the third quarter of the fifth century has its echoes in the Spartan status of the homoios. If the law had been proposed by Cimon it would have effectively ended the use of the cemetery by his aristocratic rivals and promoted himself as being in tune with the times. Cimon had no need for display in the cemetery; his estates were large and rich enough to be utilized in other ways to gain popularity. Morris has noted that the period c. 500 to c. 425 witnesses similar restraint in burial practices throughout the Greek world, but the significance for Athens of this phenomenon is difficult to gauge.46 Perhaps more valid is a distinction between what was placed in the tomb and what was placed on it. In this respect the changes in commemorative practice in Athens (as opposed to the continuity 44 Plut. Lyk.27; the text is open to dispute, see Cartledge (1981). 45 Might burial of the Spartan war dead have been arranged by the syssition? 46 Morris (1994), p. 73.

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of practice with regard to grave goods) contrast with the patterns elsewhere in the Greek world, where sculpted stelai continued to be set up throughout the fifth century.47 I am not fully convinced of the utility of panhellenic observations for the fifth century, a period in which Athens consciously sought to distinguish itself from the rest of the Greek world by means of its institutions, mind-set and public buildings. If we seek a slightly broader context for the changes in funerary practices following c. 480 we might look in other arenas within Athens, namely sanctuaries. Private sculptural dedications continue to be made in sizeable numbers on the Athenian Acropolis following the end of the Persian Wars and throughout the century (IG I3 810–900). This ritual expenditure contrasts not only with the new restraint in funerary monuments (and we should not forget that the size of the funeral itself had been limited) but also with the lack of public building in sanctuaries between c. 480 and c. 450. It is tempting to see an inverted balance in expenditure between the cemetery in which the polis outshone the restricted individual by means of the state funeral, epitaphios logos and public funeral monument and the sanctuary. At the latter, those citizens with the necessary resources could advertise their wealth by dedications whilst the great temples themselves lay in ruins, perhaps at the instigation of the Oath of Plataea.48 Throughout the Archaic period funerary rites and monuments had been utilized by the powerful as a means of establishing, amongst other things, status claims in the present by the manipulation of ideas about the past and their ancestors. Social and political rivalry among the Athenian wealthy, in the context of philotimia, was an ideal cultural context for displays of financial excess and the Archaic cemetery an eminently suitable location.49 The effect on the elite of an abrupt curtailment of such spending possibilities within the funerary arena c. 480 must have been considerable. The rich could 47 Biesantz (1965); Hiller (1975). 48 On the disputed oath see Siewert (1972); on the archaeology see Boersma (1970); CAH V (2nd edition) 8c, 8h.III. 49 Humphreys (1980).

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still dedicate costly votive monuments, which could be viewed not only as pious acts by individuals but also as embellishments of sanctuaries for the public good. Expenditure on liturgies in this period would also provide an access for self-advertisement within the polis, but the loss of such a traditional arena for conspicuous consumption as the cemetery may have hit hard. Morris has recognised in the few monumental tombs of the period (e.g. Kerameikos Mounds L–O) an explicit attempt, admittedly by a very small group of families, to continue the tradition of ‘heroic style’. Behind this is an attempt to continue to mark status differences between themselves and other polis members.50 Nevertheless the majority of the population of Attica appears to have assumed the ideology of egalitarianism, at least in funerary commemoration, in the third quarter of the century; images of tombs on white-ground lekythoi however may be an indication of frustrated wishes in this regard.51 If, as I have suggested, the post aliquanto legislation is responsible for the monument changes following the victory against the second Persian invasion then those monuments which appear in the generation following it must have been acceptable under its restrictions. We do not know how the law was enforced, perhaps by tacit, socially enforced agreement, or perhaps, more explicitly, by nomophylakes, but enforced it must have been. In proposing that the post aliquanto legislation initiated the cessation, rather than the decline, of Archaic commemorative practices, some of the problems in correlating the text of Cicero to the archaeological record may be overcome. Cicero’s source, Demetrius of Phalerum, could have consulted a copy of the law when preparing his own legislation; his own measure, cited by Cicero in the passage following the post aliquanto, makes similar detailed restrictions to memorial types and may have been modelled on the earlier law. Undoubtedly matters are not helped by the translation from Greek into Latin or by Cicero’s own recollection 50 Morris (1994). 51 Humphreys (1980); Morris (1994).

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of what he himself saw in the Kerameikos. Cicero’s observations came four centuries later. In the interim the chaos of the building frenzy after Chaironeia and the sack of the city by Philip V would have meant that very little fifth-century material was visible. I am aware of the hostility surrounding such attempts, in which some have viewed the text as being somewhat superfluous to the archaeological record and have challenged those who seek such co-identifications as giving primacy to the literary evidence. In an effort to counter similar accusations, let us begin with the evidence of the post-c. 480 monuments themselves, beginning with the earth mounds and mud-brick tombs superimposed on the gigantic mound G in the Kerameikos. The term sepulchrum may refer to just such burial mounds. Plato uses terminology similar to that employed by Cicero; he stipulates that a tomb (tymbos) should be no larger than what five men might make in five days, i.e. 25 working days as opposed to the 30 cited by Cicero.52 In a society where much of the work would be undertaken by slaves, a limit specifying work days as opposed to a financial ceiling may well have been the norm. Furthermore, the construction of an earth mound, as compared to a sculpted monument, would be best completed by a gang of men rather than an individual or pair of craftsmen, so again a reading of the text whereby sepulchra should be understood as tumuli seems logical.53 Finally, the term exonari and imponi are suggestive of a mound on which further monuments might be placed. The disappearance of the freestanding statue from the cemetery is an undisputed fact. Richter identified hermas as funerary kouroi because she was so intent on dating the legislation itself to the second half of the sixth century and relating the 30-day stipulation to stylistic developments in Archaic stelai, but she failed to consider fully the implications of her idea. Hermes Psychopompos played an 52 Plato, Laws 958e–59. 53 Richter (1961, pp. 38ff) argues, however, that 30 work days is too long a period simply for an earth construction. The problem seems suitable for a foray into reconstructive archaeology.

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integral role in Athenian eschatological belief and is even depicted on a few Classical monuments.54 Funerary epigrams indicate that Attic funerary kouroi were intended to portray the deceased and not Hermes. However, that does not exclude the possibility that funerary statues, like other statue types, were known by a generic term in late Republican Rome and that Cicero translated some Greek term into parlance understandable to his readers.55 The remaining change, the end of the tall, shaft relief stele, may perhaps be identified with the mention of opus tectorium. The fact that the Latin term is understood in a strictly art historical sense as referring to stucco work makes this uncertain. Stucco work as an art form is unknown in the Archaic or Classical cemeteries. Stucco is relief plaster work. Therefore it is logical to propose that the original Greek term must have referred either to relief or plaster work. Kübler suggested that the term might possibly refer to a protective plaster covering of earth mounds but provides no evidence.56 We are therefore left with the probable co-identification of the term with sculpted stone reliefs or perhaps, more generally, with any stone stele. For even the simplest, plainest type does not appear to have been set up immediately following c. 480 except for less than a handful of monuments for non-Athenians. As we have seen, the next certain development in the use of private funerary memorials in Athenian cemeteries takes place from c. 450–25, with the erection of small numbers of simple stone stelai and a very few sculpted pieces. This suggests that after about a generation (30 years) the law became gradually disregarded. There is, after all, no evidence as to how, if ever, it was enforced. Cimon, or an associate, might have proposed such a law, but the elder statesman himself perished in an expedition to Cyprus in c. 450. 54 CAT 11, 1.180(?); 2.432b; 5.150. 55 Richter (1945) provides the comparison of Pliny NH 34.18: nudae [effigies] tenentes hastam … quas Achilleas vocant. See also Vitr. de archi. 7.7.6 item si qua virili figura signa mutulos aut coronas sustinent, nostri telamones appellant … Graeci vero eos atlantas vocitant. I thank G.B. Waywell for this reference. 56 Kerameikos VII, I, p. 201, n. 107.

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Moreover the tomb scenes on white-ground lekythoi reveal that funerary monuments remained popular with a sizeable proportion of the population, even as mere iconography, throughout the century. Although some scholars have wished to associate the return of stone memorials, especially sculpted examples, with a specific cause, most notably the plague, the archaeological record is indicative of a more complex shift in mentalities and fashions.57 The earliest sculpted memorials, as Schmaltz has emphasized, show clear influence of Cycladic funerary stelai, not only in sculptural style, but also in iconography, and must be dated to the decades immediately prior to 430.58 It is likely that they, like the Thessalianstyle Athens NM 713, were produced by craftsmen attracted to Athens by the prospect of work on the Acropolis. As Diepolder proposed 70 years ago, the ‘Parthenonzeit’ must serve as the immediate artistic background for the resurgence of the private funerary memorial. There are no grounds for supporting the proposition, postulated by Clairmont, that the introduction of private funerary reliefs was initiated by a wish to imitate the reliefs decorating the public funerary memorials. Indeed evidence for relief decoration on fifth century state burial monuments is itself debatable.59 The influx of foreign artisans with their own commemorative traditions may not have served only as the stylistic influence for the first sculpted gravestones but as one of the factors in the very erection of grave monuments following c. 450. Their ignorance of, possible exemption from, even their disdain for, the restrictions of the post aliquanto legislation may have hastened its breakdown. 57 Dohrn (1957, pp. 85ff) whose sculptural chronology has not been accepted, argued that a special commission was set up at the end of the century to review the erection of gravestones which resulted in the enactment of new legislation facilitating the erection of funerary monuments. Stupperich (1977, p. 244) suggested that legislation was enacted in reacion to the ritual disorder occasioned by the plague; cf. Mikalson (1984), p. 223. For a balanced and concise discussion see Schmaltz (1983), pp. 197–200; Clairmont (1993), pp. 12–13 is obstinately rooted to a date c. 430 for the first sculpted stones. 58 Schmaltz (1983), p. 200. 59 Stupperich (1994), p. 94.

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Furthermore, their employment on the Acropolis and elsewhere in Attica on various building projects would have led to a change in mind-set. The destruction of the Persian Wars was being repaired; indeed old monuments were being surpassed. Could such ideas and hopes for beautifying the city-state’s sanctuaries have been extended to its cemeteries? The picture that is emerging is one of gradual change after c. 450. For the next 30 years a mixture of diminutive plain stelai, mainly for citizens, and slightly more elaborate small stelai for foreigners, was being set up in small numbers in cemeteries. At the same time, an even smaller section of society was spending more money and purchasing stelai produced by metic sculptors who were working largely according to their own traditions. Numbers of these monuments increased slowly throughout the 420s until at the turn of the century they were produced in large numbers and in a variety of purely Attic forms. The various pressures of the Peloponnesian War and the plague may well have spurred on the fashion for the fine sculpted monuments amongst the pious. The ascendancy of the radical democracy may have led to an attempt by some members of the elite to distinguish themselves both from the populace and from the polis, with its public burials, by the erection of costly funerary monuments. These memorials could once again serve to glorify their familial lines and allegiances. The fashion for arranging these monuments within periboloi begins in this period; the masonry of the enclosure walls was often archaistic in style. The periboloi tombs may be further witnesses to this intention.60 In concluding this discussion of the archaeological record some comment must be made on the iconography of the first sculpted monuments. There are few representations of women in Archaic Athenian funerary stelai or freestanding sculpture.61 The kore Phrasikleia is the honourable exception.62 In contrast, as has 60 The same period witnesses an increase in the size of the earth mounds (N, O) constructed in the Kerameikos which may be part of the same phenomenon. 61 Jeffery (1962), pp. 115ff. 62 IG I3 1261 Athens NM 4889.

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been noted, women appear in great numbers, from the very first examples, throughout the series of Classical stelai. Whereas Schmaltz is undoubtedly correct when he recognizes in the early pieces the Cycladic iconographic influence, neither this, nor the popularity of female figures in the iconography of red-figure or white-ground wares, can account fully for the phenomenon.63 One of the most important political measures of the mid-fifth century to have affected directly the lives of all Athenian citizens was the citizenship law attributed to Pericles.64 This law demanded, for the first time, that the mother of a legitimate Athenian citizen should herself be of citizen status, i.e. the legitimate daughter of an Athenian citizen. Part of the process to qualify as a citizen involved an examination, dokimasia, at which an individual had to say where his parents’ tombs were (if they indeed had any).65 This legislation ensured that, from 451/50, the date of the law’s initial enactment, a woman’s tomb may have been of vital importance for her descendants. Hence, the Periclean citizenship law might have served not only to encourage the reintroduction of the permanent tomb marker itself, but more especially to promote a new fashion: the regular commemoration of women. The novelty of this trend might be reflected in the depiction of stelai showing women seated on klismoi on the pots by the Tymbos Painter, which are now shown to be contemporary with the very first stelai. The very first Classical Athenian grave stelai onward locate women in domestic settings; such scenes are very popular. This argues against those who would emphasize the importance of the state memorials in the reappearance of the stelai. Whatever sculpture did adorn these memorials and whenever it was introduced, we may be sure it did not include women seated on klismoi or stood, holding articles of their toilette!

63 Clairmont (1986), pp. 33ff. 64 [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 26.4; Plut. Per. 37.2–5; Aelian Var. Hist. 6.10. The law was reinforced in 403, Eumolos fr. 2, Schol. ad Aeschin. 1.39. See Patterson (1981). 65 [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 55.3.

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Conclusions

T

his paper has attempted to reassess the archaeology of the sculpted grave monument within fifth-century Athens by means of a detailed consideration of the epigraphic and sculptural evidence. In so doing it has consciously rejected the challenge laid down by Morris to work on the panhellenic level, preferring instead to show how the Athenian material has itself to be securely dated before broader studies are viable.66 I have unfashionably re-emphasised the importance of the post aliquanto legislation by dating it to c. 480/79 and have suggested that it might even have been an act of cryptophilolakonism, which somewhat ironically was quite in keeping with the growing egalitarianism of the first decades of the century. The Latin terms employed by Cicero have been postulated as accounting for the burial practices of the second quarter of the fifth century. In this period only a few wealthy families accepted the challenge of burying conspicuously, even within the terms of the law. This suggests that there were strong social and perhaps legal pressures to conform to the new ideology to which the majority of the population adhered. Scenes of tombs depicted on white-ground lekythoi reveal, as Morris has suggested, that for a somewhat wider proportion of those burying, the ideal of the funerary monument remained.67 The wealthy elite found alternative arenas for financial outlay both within sanctuaries and the liturgy system. I have concluded that the first stone stelai, both plain and sculpted, appear to have begun to be erected in regular but small numbers after c. 450, and not c. 430 as is often claimed. Therefore neither the plague nor the state memorials were responsible for causing their reappearance. In fact, foreign craftsmen responsible for producing the initial carved monuments may also have played a wider role in this reappearance by bringing with them their own burial traditions to Athens. Athenian citizens may also have 66 Morris (1994). 67 Morris (1994).

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been inspired to begin commemorating burials in an attempt both to protect and advertise their claims to citizenship following the Periclean citizenship law of 451/50; this law may have initiated a change from Archaic practice in that women were now regularly memorialized. Monuments may have increased in popularity throughout the course of the Peloponnesian War in atonement for the impieties perpetrated during the plague. The first sculpted state memorials, which may also date to this period, may have augmented the number of sculpted monuments erected portraying soldiers, as wealthy families sought to compete with or imitate state practice. In so doing, an iconography of equality was usurped and transformed into an iconography of inequality as monument quality and grandeur grew. The appearance of the first familial burial enclosures c. 425 may also be witness to growing tensions between household and state, as well as to the rebirth of the cemetery as an arena for conspicuous consumption by the elite. These tensions and rivalries continued and expanded in the fourth century, until Demetrius of Phalerum began the cycle anew by the enactment of funerary legislation which sought, yet again, to restrict the display and expenditure of the Attic cemetery.68 I have adopted a consciously non-theoretical stance in this paper in an attempt to clarify the complexities of the archaeogical material. In so doing I am aware that I may be open to the criticism of functionalist reductionism, but in conclusion I reiterate that the aim of this discussion was to look afresh at the funerary material in the light of the recent epigraphic and art historical corpora. For it is only by reference to the constant detailed specialist re-examinations, reassessments and criticisms of our objects of study and their archaeological contexts that theoretical archaeology can gain credence and intellectual longevity.

68 Stears (2000).

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Bibliography Ashmole, B. (1972), Architect and Sculptor in Classical Greece, London. Baldassare, I. (1988), ‘Tomba e stele nelle lekythoi a fondo bianco’, AnnNap 10, pp. 107–15. Bergemann, J. (1997), Demos und Thanatos. Untersuchungen zum Wertsystem der Polis im Spiegel der attischen Grabreliefs des 4. Jhdts. v. Chr. und zur Funktion der gleichzeitigen Grabbauten, Munich. Biesantz, H. (1965), Die thessalischen Grabreliefs. Studien zur nordgreichischen Kunst, Mainz. Boardman, J. (1955), ‘Painted funerary plaques and some remarks on prothesis’, BSA 50, pp. 55–66. Boersma, J. S. (1970), Athenian Building Policy from 561/0 to 405/4 Groningen.

BC,

Brommer, F. (1967), Die Metopen des Parthenon, Mainz. Brommer, F. (1977), Die Parthenonfries: Katalog und Untersuchungen, Mainz. Cartledge, P. (1981), ‘Spartan wives: liberation or licence’, CQ 31, pp. 84–105. Clairmont, C. W. (1970), Gravestone and Epigram: Greek memorials from the archaic and classical period, Mainz. Clairmont, C. W. (1983), Patrios Nomos: Pubic Burial in Athens During the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC (BAR International Series 161), Oxford. Clairmont, C. W. (1986), ‘Some reflections on the earliest Classical Attic gravestones’, Boreas 9, pp. 27–50. Clairmont, C. W. (1993), Classical Attic Tombstones. Introductory Volume, Kilchberg. Conze, A. (1893–1922), Die attischen Grabreliefs, Berlin. Diepolder, H. (1931), Die attischen Grabreliefs des fünften und vierten Jahrhunderts, Berlin. Dohrn, T. (1957), Attische Plastik von Tode des Phidias bis zum Wirken der großen Meister des vierten Jahrhunderts v. Chr., Krefeld Eckstein, F. (1958), ‘Die attischen Grabmälergesetze’, JdI 73, pp. 18–29. Fairbanks, A. (1907–14), Athenian White Lekythoi (University of Michigan Studies 6–7), Ann Arbor.

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Garland, R. S. J. (1982), ‘A first catalogue of attic peribolos tombs’, BSA 77, pp. 125–76. Hiller, H. (1975), Ionische Grabreliefs der ersten Hälfte des 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr., (DAI Istanbuler Mitteilungen, Beiheft 12), Tübingen. Humphreys, S. C. (1980), ‘Family tombs and tomb cult in ancient Athens—tradition or traditionalism?’, JHS 100, pp. 96–126, reprinted in S. C. Humphreys, The Family, Women and Death, London, 1983, pp. 79–130. Jeffery, L. H. (1962), ‘The inscribed gravestones of Archaic Attica’, BSA 57, pp. 115–53. Karouzou, S. (1956), ‘Bemalte attische Stele’, AM 71, pp. 124–39. Kerameikos VII, i = K. Kübler (1976), Die Nekropole der Mitte des 6. bis frühen 6. Jahrhunderts (Kerameikos VII, i), Berlin. Kerameikos IX = U. Knigge (1976), Die Sudhügel (Kerameikos IX), Berlin. Kleine, J. (1973), Untersuchungen zur Chronologie der attischen Kunst von Peisistratos bis Themistocles (DAI Istanbuler Mitteilungen, Beiheft 8), Tübingen. Knigge, U. (1983), ‘Ein Jünglingskopf vom Heiligen Tor in Athen’, AM 98, pp. 45–56. Kostoglou-Despini, A. (1979), Problemata tis Parianis Plastikis tou 5ou Aiona p. Ch., Thessaloniki. Kurtz, D. C. (1975), Athenian White Lekythoi, Oxford. Loraux, N. (1986), The Invention of Athens: The Funeral Oration in the Classical City, trans. A. Sheridan, Cambridge, MA. Originally published as L’invention d’Athènes. Histoire de l’oraison funèbre dans la cité classique, Paris, 1981. Mikalson, J. D. (1984), ‘Religion and the plague in Athens, 431–423 BC’, in Studies Presented to Sterling Dow on his eightieth birthday (GRBS Monographs 10), Durham, NC, pp. 217–25. Mitropoulou. E. (1977), Attic Votive Reliefs of the 6th and 5th Centuries Athens.

BC,

Morris, I. (1992a), Death-Ritual and Social Structure in Classical Antiquity, Cambridge. Morris, I. (1992b), ‘Law, culture and funerary art in Athens 600–300 Hephaistos 12, pp. 35–50.

BC’,

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Morris, I. (1994), ‘Everyman’s Grave’, in Athenian Identity and Civic Ideology, ed. A. L. Boeghold and A. C. Scafuro, Baltimore, pp. 67–101. Nakayama, N. (1982), Untersuchungen der aus weissgrundigen Lekythen dargestellten, Grabmäler, Freiburg. Patterson, C. B. (1981), Pericles’ Citizenship Law of 451–450 BC, Salem, NH. Payne, H. and G. M. Young (1936), Archaic Marble Sculpture from the Acropolis, London. Richter, G. M. A. (1944), Archaic Attic Gravestones, Cambridge, MA. Richter, G. M. A. (1945), ‘Peisistratos’ law regarding tombs’, AJA 49, p. 152. Richter, G. M. A. (1951), Three Critical Periods in Greek Sculpture, Oxford Richter, G. M. A. (1961), The Archaic Gravestones of Attica, London Ridgway, B. S. (1981), Fifth Century Styles in Greek Sculpture, Princeton. Rupp, D. (1980), ‘Altars as funerary monuments on Attic white lekythoi’, AJA 84, pp. 524–27. Rupp, D. (1983), ‘Reflections on the development of altars in the eighth century BC’, in The Greek renaissance of the eighth century BC. Tradition and innovation (Proceedings of the 2nd International Symposium at the Swedish Institute at Athens, 1–5 June 1981), ed. R. Hägg, Stockholm, pp. 101–07. Schlörb-Vierneisel, B. (1964), ‘Zwei klassische Kindergräber im Kerameikos’, AM 79, pp. 85–104. Schmaltz, B. (1983), Griechische Grabreliefs, Darmstadt. Siewert, P. (1972), Der Eid von Plataiai, Munich. Small, D. B. (1995), ‘Monuments, laws, and analysis: combining archaeology and text in Ancient Athens’, in Methods in the Mediterranean. Historical and archaeological views on texts and archaeology, ed. D. B. Small, Leiden, pp. 143–74. Stears, K. (1995), ‘Dead women’s society: constructing female gender in Classical Athenian funerary sculpture’, in Time, Tradition and Society in Greek Archaeology, ed. N. Spencer, London, pp. 109–31. Stears, K. (2000), ‘Losing the picture: the funerary legislation of Demetrios of Phaleron’, in Word and Image (Proceedings of the First Leventis Conference), ed. N. K. Rutter and B. A. Sparkes, Edinburgh. Stewart, A. (1990), Greek Sculpture. An Exploration, Yale.

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Stupperich, R. (1977), Staatsbegräbnis und Privatgrabmal im klassischen Athen, diss. Münster. Stupperich, R. (1994), ‘The iconography of Athenian state burials in the classical period’, in The Archaeology of Athens and Attica under the Democracy (Oxbow Monograph 37), ed. W. D. E. Coulson, O. Palagia, T. L. Shear, Jr., H. A. Shapiro and F. J. Frost, Oxford, pp. 93–103. Thomas, R. (1989), Oral Tradition and Written Record in Classical Athens, Cambridge. Whitley, J. (1994), ‘The monuments that stood before Marathon: Tomb cult and hero cult in Archaic Attica’, AJA 98, pp. 213–30. Zinserling, V. (1965), ‘Das attische Grabluxusgesetz des frühen 5. Jhdts.’, Wissentschaftliche Zeitschrift der Friedrich-Schiller-Universität Jena, Gesellschaftsund Sprachwissenschaftliche Reihe 14, pp. 29–34.

CHAPTER THREE

Athenian Funerary Monuments: Style, Grandeur, and Cost Graham Oliver Introduction: tombstones and wealth

U

ntil recently the idea that funerary monuments give some indication of wealth, and that the prosperous and literate were more likely to be better represented on such memorials than anyone else, had gone largely unchallenged:1 ‘Gravestones, however mean, are indicative of wealth and pretentions.’2 Any specific statement about the level of wealth required to erect such a monument has rarely been ventured, and typical are Whitehead’s remarks when discussing the statistical use of funerary monuments: ‘one learns only about the residence of men of sufficient means to have a grave monument at all’.3 Implicit in these treatments of funerary monuments is that wealthy people were more likely to have erected a stone following their death. These views were challenged in 1989 by Thomas Heine Nielsen and his colleagues, the members of the Danish research project at the University of Copenhagen working on the funerary monuments of Attica. In their article 1 2 3

Davies (1984), p. 267. Osborne (1985), p. 130; n.b. this paper will concentrate, as Nielsen et al. (1989), p. 413, on the evidence of the fourth century BC. Whitehead (1986), p. 354.

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Nielsen suggested that ‘even poor citizens could easily afford a grave monument inscribed with their name’.4 Their argument was designed to correct the orthodoxy represented by Davies, Garland, Osborne, and Whitehead. They show that the sepulchral inscriptions were not biased towards the wealthy but that ‘many of the sepulchral inscriptions must in fact commemorate ordinary citizens of little distinction and slender means, and that wealthy citizens—though perhaps represented in more than their due proportion—probably count for a fairly small fraction of the funeral monuments we have’.5 Surprisingly little serious consideration has been paid to Nielsen et al.’s article, and in particular to the fundamental claim that a simple stele was not too expensive for even an ordinary citizen to afford. The cost of the funerary monument forms an important but controversial part of the argument and it is difficult to accept both Nielsen’s claim that the sepulchral inscriptions show no or little bias to the wealthy and also to maintain that the price of a funerary monument was high. In her discussion of the ‘Epitaphs and Citizenship in Classical Athens’ Elizabeth Meyer recognised Nielsen’s conclusions but paradoxically continued to acknowledge the relatively high cost of funerary monuments.6 Morris also maintains the orthodoxy that the grave monument was an expensive item, and proposes that in the fourth century perhaps only about 10 per cent of Athenians could have afforded such a memorial; although he is aware of Nielsen’s article he makes little of its arguments about the social distribution of funerary monuments.7 4 5 6

7

Nielsen et al. (1989), p. 412. Nielsen et al. (1989), p. 412. Meyer (1993), p. 105 n. 9: ‘Although fourth-century epitaphs were available to most … they were also not cheap’. To some extent this view misses the point of Nielsen’s study which claims that funerary monuments were cheap enough even to be afforded by poor people. Morris (1992), p. 135: ‘Access to [funerary] monuments was wider in the fourth century than the fifth, but still open to a relatively small group, which, at a guess, I would put at around 10% of the population’. Nielsen’s study is cited at p. 138 n.7 without any indication of its challenge to this orthodoxy.

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If it can be shown that funerary monuments were relatively high in cost, then it is far less likely that poorer citizens could have afforded to erect them. It will of course be extremely difficult to show that in spite of their high cost inscribed funerary monuments were erected by the poorer Athenians. Fashions change; there are sufficient examples of poorer elements in society spending large sums on tombstones.8 The Danish team’s calculations suggest that ‘the total cost of a simple grave monument with a short sepulchral inscription must have been much less than 20 dr. and probably not much more than c. 10 dr. if decorated with a small standard relief ’.9 They suggest that such an amount could have been afforded by an ordinary Athenian, whom they identify as someone as badly off as a citizen drawing disability allowance of two obols per day, and owning property less than 300 drachmai. The calculation of the cost of erecting a funerary monument focuses on one piece of epigraphic evidence which is assumed to be a much better source than the other literary texts collected by Davies in his assessment of the variety of burial costs in the historical sources of fourth-century Athens.10

The cost of burying Theophilos of Xypete and his wife

T

he inscription under inspection is a record of the poletai from Athens, found in the Agora in 1938 and dating to 367/66 11 BC. This public document concerns itself, among other things, with a series of financial claims made against a confiscated house in Alopeke belonging to a certain Theosebes, son of Theophilos of Xypete, who had been charged with sacrilege, skipped trial and 8 9 10 11

Parker-Pearson (1982). Nielsen et al. (1989), p. 414. Davies (1971), p. xix n.3. Editio princeps M. Crosby, Hesperia 10, 1941, pp. 14–27, no. 1 (Ag. I 5509) = Agora XIX no. P5. For the section discussed here, the most recent treatment is by Lambert (1998), pp. 314–20 (on P5, ll. 17–35).

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had been found guilty in his absence. Before the house could be sold by auction claims against the property were made, and among the three claims was that of Isarchos son of Philon of Xypete who contended that ‘30 drachmai are owed to him on the house in Alopeke which Theomnestos son of Deisitheos registered. I having buried Theophilos, whose house this was, and the wife of Theophilos. It was decided that the debt was owed.’12 Isarchos was claiming back 30 drachmai for burying the parents of Theosebes. Nielsen assumes that the 30 drachmai was spent on the burial of two people, and also that the cost covered the full cost of burial which would have included the erection of funerary monuments; of this total, only a fraction would have been spent on the erection of a funerary monument, and this sum can only have been between 10 and 20 drachmai.13 The inscription raises serious difficulties, and it is not possible to assume simply that the 30 drachmai included the cost of erecting a funerary monuments. Davies suggested that the 30 drachmai ‘might be merely the balance outstanding’, and not the full cost of a double burial.14 Nielsen thought that this was ‘guesswork’. Clearly Davies’s proposal would mean that the real cost of the burial could have been higher (much higher) than the sum being reclaimed and also that the figure can in no way indicate the full cost of erecting a funerary monument. A comparison with the literary passages indicates sums which are vastly higher than the 30 drachmai owed to Isarchos here, and even if the figures have been inflated for oratorical purposes, 30 drachmai is a very low figure for the cost of a double burial.15 Although there is no direct evidence to say either way whether 30 drachmai was a balance or the total cost of burial, some insight might be gained by considering the circumstances of the 12 13 14 15

Agora XIX P5, ll. 25–30, translated by Finley (1953), p. 475. Nielsen et al. (1989), p. 414. Davies (1971), p. xix n. 3. 300 drachmai for the ‘burial’, Lysias 31.12; 1,000 drachmai for the ‘burial’, Dem. 40.52; 2,500 or 5,000 drachmai for the memorial for his father, Lysias 32.21; over two talents on a memorial, Dem. 45.79. See also Lysias 19.59 which mentions lending money to pay for burial expenses.

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burial, Isarchos’s involvement and Theosebes’s absence. The strict interpretation of the words here would suggest that Isarchos himself had buried Theosebes’s parents, and that Theosebes was not involved. It is less clear that the sum covered the burial costs and does not represent a balance: the inscription refers only to the burial, the word used, ‘thapto’, commonly refers only to the burial rites themselves.16 There is no allusion to erecting a memorial; this was not what was required to avoid pollution, only the simplest burial rites would have been sufficient.17 If Theosebes’s parents had died in their son’s absence and no other relatives survived to complete the necessary burial rites, then the responsibility for the proper disposal of the bodies and purification of the deme would have fallen on the deme and the demarch (chief deme official) to complete the burial.18 A law recorded in the Demosthenic corpus observes that the demarch must contract for the burial of anyone who dies in the deme and whose relatives have not taken up the burial. On such occasions the demarch is to contract for the taking up of the dead, the burial and the purification of the deme, on the same day, and at the lowest possible price, if nobody takes up the burial and no relative comes forth. Whatever he spends, double that amount is to be extracted from whomsoever is liable.19 The sale of the property went ahead to Lysanias son of Palaithon of Lakiadai for 575 drachmai. Isarchos’ claim against the house was one of three claims allowed. Isarchos had agreed to or been contracted to accept the responsibility of burying Theosebes’s parents, and was subsequently reclaiming the money involved against the house in Alopeke. It has been suggested by Lambert that Isarchos may in fact have been the demarch of 16 LSJ s.v. θα′ πτω 17 Parker (1983), p. 44. 18 On the role of the deme in this matter, see now Lambert (1998), p. 227 n. 121. 19 [Dem.] 43.57–58; Whitehead (1986), p. 138. For removing a corpse from Raria, Nikon, a non-citizen resident at Eleusis, can only have received a small amount, IG II2 1672, ll. 119–20.

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Xypete himself.20 If Isarchos was in fact demarch, then he would have faced a penalty of 1,000 drachmai if he had failed to establish a contract for the burial of the deceased.21 It is tempting therefore to see Isarchos stepping in to complete the burial of Theosebes’s parents as a useful way of short-circuiting any more problems. Moreover, the emphasis on burial being completed was on speed, and not to allow the dead to lay unburied for any great length of time. Furthermore, if the law quoted in the Demosthenic speech is applicable to this instance in the accounts of the poletai, the sum being reclaimed by Isarchos against the property of Theosebes would surely have been double the sum expended. The result would suggest that the sum of 30 drachmai covered the burial of two people and may even have been double the sum expended. The emphasis in the Demosthenic law is that such burial should have been done as cheaply as possible. Isarchos may have been less inclined to erect a memorial for two people who clearly were not his parents,22 so the figure of 30 drachmai for the burial of the parents of Theosebes probably did not include the cost of erecting a memorial. Theosebes was charged with sacrilege; his flight may have left his parents, Theophilos and his wife, without family members to display the sort of burial rites that might otherwise have been performed.23 Osborne has suggested that Theosebes and his parents belonged to a priestly family; Lambert suggests it may have been the phratry priesthood.24 If the family had been so distinguished, the burial of Theophilos and his wife must have been ignominious. Their son Theosebes had fled in disgrace and neglected his filial duties.25 20 Lambert (1998), p. 319. 21 Dem. 43.58. 22 Whitehead (1986), p. 234. See also pp. 451–52 (no. 353) for Isarchos, and p. 452 (no. 358) for his brothers and family. 23 See Humphreys (1993), ch. 5 on the role of the family in the rituals of death and burial; cf. Morris (1992), p. 159 for Roman families. 24 Osborne (1985), p. 5 and n. 25; Lambert (1998), p. 318. 25 Parker (1983), p. 46 on the use of burial to hurt and insult.

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It would seem very difficult to use the poletai inscription from 367/66 BC as a secure basis for establishing the cost of a funerary monument. The cost of a funerary marker must be considered within the wider context of the care for the dead. A theoretical calculation based on the cost of the burial rites added to the hypothetical cost of a burial marker produces a notional total cost. But did burial in Athens work this way? Erecting a burial marker implies a level of care among the living to commemorate the dead. Burial rites did not require the erection of a stone inscribed burial marker.26 The evidence for the attention of associations to the burial of members serves also as a reminder that not everyone could have afforded proper and full burial in antiquity.27

Simple tombstones and rich burials

T

he second element of Nielsen’s argument suggests that when the names of those recorded on the gravestones from fourthcentury Athens are compared with the names of known wealthy citizens, typically those who have performed liturgies and are recorded in Davies’s Athenian Propertied Families, then ‘there is no clear connection between the wealth of a citizen and the magnificence of his gravestone’.28 Of 13 liturgy performers known to have been 26 Parker (1983), pp. 43–45. 27 See IG II2 1327, ll. 10–12 (second century BC) and for burial fund, IG II2 1323, ll. 10–11 (second century BC); IG II2 1278 (third century BC), the word taphikon is restored; on such associations, see van Nijf (1997), pp. 50–51 for discussion. 28 Nielsen et al. (1989), p. 41. To the one monument with relief (IG II2 7636) add IG II2 6969, which is described by Kirchner (IG II2, p. 487/1) as ‘Stele marm. Pent. cum anaglypho, quo repraesentantur vir sedens et mulier stans manibus iunctis’. The other seven individuals are commemorated on stelai with aetoma (IG II2 5501, 6370, 6970), marble bases (IG II2 6569, 7286, possibly 6635) and a loutrophoros (IG II2 6667). The absence of an aediculum is removed if one includes the monument of Philokrates son of Phrynichus of Acharnai, IG II2 5847, one of five men identified as possible members of Athenian propertied families.

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recorded on a gravestone, Nielsen finds four are simple stelai, one is a columella and only one stone decorated with a relief, and concludes therefore that ‘if one’s grave monument was an indication of wealth and social status, we should expect the known examples of grave monuments erected by members of the liturgical class to have been much more impressive and expensive than they are’.29 Surely this statement makes too many assumptions about how the wealthy chose to display their wealth, and underestimates the importance of the burial context in which memorials were erected. While the results of this survey of liturgy performers recorded on gravestones is important, it in no way shows that the poorer people were also able to afford to erect a grave monument. It is clearly a false assumption to think that the wealthy family would automatically opt for the more ostentatious funerary monument and that a simple correlation between quality of memorial and level of wealth existed.30 This sort of oversimplification was a feature of Sundwall’s use of the funerary inscriptions which according to Davies ‘reflect not only economic position but also a scale of taste, fashions, and values …’.31 To discover four simple stelai among the 13 grave monuments commemorating Athenians who had performed liturgies is no surprise. A large number of such monuments had probably once been situated within the context of a family bury plot, or peribolos. In two of the periboloi tombs studied by Garland, one contains a simple columella, and another includes one columella and four small 29 Nielsen et al. (1989), p. 41. 30 The survivors of the deceased would have been responsible for the burial and commemoration, see Humphreys (1993), pp. 83–88; although see above for the role of the demarch. 31 Davies (1971), p. xix. 32 Garland (1982), p. 136, A1: the peribolos of Dexileos, a columella to Kalliphanes, IG II2 11817; p. 138, A4: the peribolos of Lysimachides of Acharnai, IG II2 5813 a columella of Lysimachides, son of Lysimachos, of Acharnai (see Figure 3.1B); and four cippi including three, of Lysimachides, Lysimachos and Lysistratos, IG II2 12002 (see Figure 3.1A); and the fourth, to [Hip]pakide[s], IG II2 11720.

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stone markers.32 It is worth noting that the four small stone markers and single kioniskos were all found in the same peribolos plot of Lysimachides, one of the wealthiest Athenian families; the peribolos enclosure itself and the associated sculpture, not the funerary markers, are better illustrations of the family wealth.33 The peribolos tomb was extremely expensive in itself, and often contained large funerary monuments, although some sought to employ cheaper alternatives which would retain features of the full-scale peribolos.34 A simple grave marker of an Athenian known from other sources to have been wealthy does not require us to assume that such a man was not as wealthy as had been assumed. The grave monument itself as we observe it now often exists in a museum or apotheke, or it is described in an epigraphical commentary, in isolation from its surroundings and removed from its original physical location. We can not be sure that a simple grave marker did not stand in an elaborate peribolos tomb, or a spectacular burial plot.35 In short, we can not assume that a simple looking gravestone indicates the absence of wealth. Local and social, as well as economic, factors may have determined the type of funerary marker used for an individual.36 Some people may have been more inclined than others to erect a grand monument and it is interesting to note the number of outstanding funerary monuments which foreigners built. According to Pausanias ‘the best monuments for size and elaboration are one of a Rhodian resident at Athens and one built by Harpalos 33 If we remove the ‘rule’ that the kioniskos or columella must date after 317/16, then the kioniskos of Lysimachides son of Lysitheos of Acharnai must be the homonymous archon of 339/338 and contributor of naval equipment, PA 9480, see Garland (1982), p. 139 n. 51. See Chapter Two for the problems of legislation and the dating of funerary monuments. 34 Garland (1982), p. 131. 35 On the re-use in late Classical and Hellenistic times of earlier burial plots and their markers to distinguish social hierarchies in Kerameikos, see HoubyNielsen (1998). 36 Rhamnous has produced an amazing series of funerary monuments; on the development of display there, see Osborne (1991), p. 241.

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the Macedonian [for Pythonice]’.37 One of the most extravagant monuments erected for non-Athenians belongs to the Histrian family of Nikeratos and his son Polyxenos. It was discovered in the modern Athenian suburb of Kallithea and can now be seen in the Piraeus Museum. The raised aedicula stands over three metres high and houses the statues of the family of the deceased. The monument has been described by Wycherley as ‘one of the finest of Athenian monuments of the fourth century BC’.38 Such monuments were clearly vastly expensive projects and must have been financed by personal fortunes. Grand funerary monuments were a statement of one’s wealth or the prosperity and status of one’s family. It is not the case that people at all times in all societies wish to make such statements. Certainly, competitive display in the form of grand and monumental burial structures went in and out of fashion in Athens. Not all wealthy citizens in Athens at all times wished or were able to express their social position through the funerary monument. In short, economic factors alone did not determine either the decision to erect a funerary monument or the choice of monument type and style. Certainly they were important considerations, but other factors were also relevant.39 Tastes did change. In some cases the inscribed funerary marker does not indicate the success or status of the family. Some of the richest Athenian 37 Pausanias I.37.4, trans. P. Levi, Pausanias Guide to Greece Volume I, Harmondsworth, 1971, p. 105. 38 Nikeratos’s monument (SEG 24.258): see Garland (1982), p. 158 = L2; Wycherley (1978), p. 258. Similarly, the description of the Theodectes monument, a Phaselite, Pausanias I.37.4 and [Plutarch] Vit.X.Or.837 c–d; the Pythonice tomb ‘the most notable of all the ancient tombs of the Greeks’, Pausanias I.37.4, costing 30 talents, Plutarch, Phoc. 22; cf. Diodorus Siculus 17.108; Athenaeus 13.594–95a/c; on Pythonice and Harpalus see now Davidson (1998), p. 106. 39 Similarly, Meyer (1993, p. 105) says of the increase in erecting funerary monuments of Athenians in the fourth century that ‘it is implausible … that economic factors alone could have encouraged the Athenians in the [fourth] century’.

Figure 3.1A: Three cippi (IG II2 12002): of Lysimachides (Ker. Phot. Farbe 00-5-2. Inv. J252), Lysimachos (Ker. Phot. Farbe 00-5-72. Inv. J253), and Lysistratos (Ker. Phot. 00-5-14. Inv. J203).

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The Epigraphy of Death Figure 3.1B: Kioniskos of Lysimachides son of Lysimachos of Acharnai (IG II2 5813; Ker. Phot. 00-5.14. Inv. J203).

Figure 3.2: Kioniskoi at the Kerameikos.

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families did not necessarily present themselves with such selfaggrandisement. The peribolos plot of Lysimachides suggests the wealth of the family, but contains inscribed cippi (Figure 3.1A) and a kioniskos (Figure 3.1B). Another family plot which emits mixed messages is the family burial plot of Lycurgus of Bate. Lycurgan ideology in Athens after Chaeronea did not necessarily value the glory of the individual over the benefits which the individual could serve to the community.40 The tombstones of Lycurgus’s family are relatively restrained: literary evidence describes them as trapezai,41 and the excavated examples, whatever their precise date, do not by themselves indicate a family that enjoyed great political power in the second half of the fourth century.42 Funerary monuments are deceptive indicators of class and status and need to be read as monuments in a wider social and environmental context. If we return therefore to the lower social classes and wish to suggest that many could have afforded tombstones, we not only have to prove that in fact burial costs were within their means but also that there was sufficient motivation to expend some of their means on display. Although many factors will have affected the erection of funerary monuments, it is necessary to complete this analysis by considering the remaining evidence for the cost of the erection of a funerary monument. Nielsen’s evidence does not prove that the poor were able to, let alone did in fact, erect funerary monuments. It is difficult to deny that many of the elaborate monuments were beyond the means of the ordinary monument. However, according to Nielsen, 588 undecorated stelai survive from the fourth century and ‘most of the simple grave monuments that survive in great numbers were erected by ordinary citizens’.43 The fact that the majority of the funerary monuments have been removed from their original context makes such conclusions uncertain. The number of simple stelai alone can not be used as an index to measure 40 41 42 43

Humphreys (1985), pp. 217–18; Lycurg. In Leoc. 139–40. [Plut.] Vit.X.Orat. 842e. Matthaiou (1987) (= SEG 37.161–63). Nielsen et al. (1989), pp. 412ff.

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or estimate the proportion of affordable grave markers erected in the fourth century. We have already seen how fragile the evidence of the cippi and kioniskos in the peribolos of Lysimachides would have been if the inscribed markers had been found outside their context. An unknown proportion of simple stelai will have been erected within a peribolos enclosure; it is impossible to say that the 588 undecorated stelai can be identified as the memorials of ordinary Athenians without confirmation of the context in which such monuments had been found. The simplest and most pervasive of all the inscribed funerary monuments in Athens supposedly belong to the period after 317 BC: the kioniskos or columella (Figure 3.2). This type of monument is thought to have dominated Athens following the introduction of legislation by Demetrius of Phalerum. On the strength of the evidence recorded in Cicero’s de legibus written nearly 300 years after the supposed time of the reforms,44 we hear how Demetrius, in addition to other reforms of burial practice, ‘imposed a limit on new tombs: for he did not want anything to be erected above the mound of earth unless it was a small column of three cubits and no higher or a table [mensa] or a libation basin [labellum]’.45 Following the implications of the text, Kirchner has arranged the dates of all the funerary monuments according to a simple set of rules to which only a handful of exceptions could be found. All small columnar tombstones, identified by Kirchner as columella and known also today as kioniskos, belong to a period after 317–07; almost all tombstones which display ornamental sculpture in the round or in relief belong before 317–07. This simple guideline is seen in full force in Kirchner’s publication of the inscriptions on Athenian tombstones, and nowhere more explicitly than in the plates to the third part of volume two. Kirchner dates no columella before 317 and was able to identify only a handful of monuments which contravened the principle that sculptured tombstones did not appear after 44 Cicero de legibus, ii.25.63–26.66 = FGrH 228 f. 9. 45 Cicero de legibus, ii.27.66.

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307.46 It was only sporadically in the third century and with more regularity from the second century onwards that Demetrius’ rulings start to be observed less strictly.47 Here is the sort of evidence which illustrates just how difficult it is to use the funerary monuments as indicators of social class. The richest Athenians are certainly less visible if their names are recorded on ordinary columellae and particularly so if, as is generally believed, periboloi were outlawed by the Demetrian legislation. But even here distinct social hierarchies were displayed through the medium of the grave kioniskos. Some were more decorated than others, and the context in which the monuments were set up allowed individuals and families to establish their importance or status: the location of the memorial remained a significant form of social display.48 Even here there is considerable scope for uncertainty. Kirchner’s chronology of the columellae commemorating Athenian citizens reveals a range of dates: 18 ‘post 317/6’,49 10 ‘fin s. iv/init. s. iii’,50 seven ‘fin. s. iv. a.’,51 one ‘post fin. s. iv a.’52 and six ‘s. iv/iii’.53 There are 42 monuments whose dates fall closely around the pivotal year 317. Many are of uncertain date, and those precisely dated ‘post 317 a.’ could, in fact, belong to any period in the three centuries before 46 Kirchner (1937). Following the publication of the third part of volume two of Inscriptiones Graecae in 1940, and the subsequent addenda, Kirchner considered that of those tombstones which broke the ruling of Demetrius, six belonged to the third century (IG II2 7997, 8404, 8414, 9034, 9046, 10314), and eight belonged to the second century (IG II2 6920, 12118, 5843, 5891, 8488, 8808, 8904, 10079). Several examples identified as dating after 317 in 1937 are subsequently returned to the fourth century (IG II2 7863, 8935, 9032, 9035, 9308 and 10512). 47 Kurtz and Boardman (1969), p. 169. 48 Houby-Nielsen (1998). 49 ‘post 317/6’: IG II2 5373, 5976, 6599, 6900, 7325, 7378, 7432, 7533, 7552, 7579, 7643, 7645, 7647, 7648, 7652, 7696, 7802, 7822. 50 ‘fin s. iv/init. s. iii’: IG II2 6612, 6619, 6729, 7245, 7297, 7455, 7672, 7673, 7763, 7806. 51 ‘fin. s. iv. a.’: IG II2 5441, 5810, 5813, 6082, 6433, 6941, 7232. 52 ‘post fin. s. iv a.’: IG II2 5665. 53 ‘s. iv/iii’: IG II2 5488, 5806, 6493, 6522, 6960, 7766.

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Christ. It is possible that the wider social circumstances in the years at the end of the fourth century, and not the Demetrian law itself, brought on this change in memorial style. The kioniskos was a simple inscribed grave marker, but it was the context of this tombstone as much as the tombstone itself which could continue to indicate status. The inscribed funerary monument is not reliable proof that the poor did erect funerary monuments.

The price of a tombstone in a burial context

O

ne question remains: were the poor able to afford to honour their dead with a monument? A simple funerary monument, which might be understood as a rectangular marble slab without sculptural or any other kind of decoration, might have entailed the cost of the stone, the price of moving the stone to its desired location, and the shaping and carving of the stone. Whether or not there was any further cost in erecting a stone in a specific location is much less clear but vital to our understanding. The cost of the stone itself will surely have included both the intrinsic cost of the marble and the cost of quarrying and moving the marble from the Hymettus or Penteli quarry to the workshop, if this is where a tombstone would have been purchased. The most recent studies of the cost of Athenian inscriptions assess the money allocated to the inscribing of a document.54 Lawton suggests that money allocated for the inscribing of a decree recorded on many inscriptions of the fourth century refers only to the cost of the inscribing of the decree itself and not to the carving and addition of the relief.55 The cost of ‘writing up’ an inscription varies over the fourth century and fluctuates between 20 and 30 drachmai between c. 390 and 332, from 30 to 50 drachmai for the longest inscription after 332 54 Nolan (1981); Lawton (1995), pp. 24–28; Loomis (1998), pp. 121–65. 55 Lawton (1995), pp. 25–26. Examples of inscriptions and accompanying reliefs with the sum for the ‘writing up’ of the inscription preserved include IG II2 31, 116, 135, 226, 448 and SEG 12.87.

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until c. 299, and 20, but more commonly, 10 drachmai from 298 to c. 270.56 Scholars have traditionally linked the price of inscribing the inscription with the length of the text. Tod followed the nineteenthcentury tradition that up to 1,000 letters cost 20 drachmai, and an additional 10 drachmai for each additional 500 letters.57 In his publication of the proxeny decree for Sopatros of Acragas, John Camp pointed out the inconsistency between recorded cost and length of text: the ‘tyranny law’ of 337/36 cost 10 drachmai while a shorter text, of the same year, cost 30 drachmai.58 The costs recorded on Athenian public documents do not therefore help a great deal in evaluating the cost of a simple stele funerary monument. Moreover, the length of text on a funerary monument itself was typically limited to name(s), with relevant patronymic and demotic, and it is likely that the professional masons who cut the public decrees did not in fact cut the text required for funerary monuments.59 The real cost of erecting a simple stele funerary monument must be reconstructed from the cost of the marble and its transportation. The information preserved on Athenian decrees for the cost of setting up an inscription is not so helpful because the costs are for 56 Nolan (1981), p. 74. 57 Tod (1906–07), p. 173: ‘The length of the decree was the determining factor in the price paid, and that the basis of the tariff was the sum of 20 drachmas for inscriptions up to 2,000 letters with an additional 10 dr. for each 500 letters, or part of 500 letters, above that number: no additional charge seems to have been made for list of names etc., sometimes appended to decrees.’ 58 J. McK. Camp, ‘Greek Inscriptions’, Hesperia 43, 1974, p. 324, no. 48; for the ‘tyranny law’, B. D. Meritt, Hesperia 21, 1952, pp. 355–59, no. 5 (Ag. Inv. I. 6524) = Schwenk (1985), pp. 33–41, no. 6; proxeny decree IG II2 240 = Schwenk (1985), pp. 41–47, no. 7. 59 Tracy (1990), p. 227 n. 8: ‘I have not had the opportunity to search thoroughly among the gravestones, but I have checked enough to feel certain these cutters did not often inscribe ordinary gravestones.’ In his study of Attic Letter-Cutters working from 229 to 86 BC, Tracy was able to identify only one funerary inscription possibly carved by a letter-cutter of the public documents: ‘In the course of this study I have found only one [grave inscription] which can be assigned to one of the cutters of the present study, Agora I 3337 by the Cutter of IG II2 1706. I regard this as the proverbial exception which proves the rule’, p. 1 n. 1.

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piecework and do not incorporate intrinsic costs of materials and transportation.60 While Lawton believed that the cost of the marble was not a factor in the inscribing costs of public documents, because the quarries were state owned, Nolan considered and examined the potential cost of quarrying, shaping and transporting a stele.61 His calculations, based on the cost of erecting a stele of Pentelic marble, can be used as the basis to establish a notional cost of a basic funerary monument.62 Nolan suggested a price of one to two drachmai for the cost of transporting one stele (for a public document), about five to 11 drachmai for preparing the stone, and between five and 10 drachmai for the quarrying of the marble.63 The cost of the uninscribed marble slab used for a public document would have been between 11 and 23 drachmai.64 The costs of preparing a similar marble stele for use as a funerary monument may have been close to those which Nolan has calculated for a public documents although inscribing a funerary inscription may not have been too costly. A tombstone was less likely to have been carved by a skilled letter-cutter.65 Nielsen’s estimate of the cost a funerary monument between 10 and 20 drachmai may therefore prove to be right, although for different reasons and on the strength of evidence which Nielsen does not consider. However establishing the approximate cost of a simple funerary stele forms only part of the total cost of a burial. Burial practices in Athens consisted of a series of rites which it was necessary to complete.66 Any calculation based on extrapolating 60 Loomis (1998), p. 163 n. 251 agreeing with Lawton. 61 Lawton (1995), p. 26; Nolan (1981), pp. 54ff. 62 Nolan (1981), pp. 57–59. So the costs are broken down on Delos, IG XI.2.161A, line 117: 25 drachmai for the stele, five drachmai for the lead, one drachma for wood, one-and-a-half drachmai for transport, and two-and-a-half drachmai for setting up. This was a large stele, 1.61 m high. 63 See now Loomis (1998), pp. 191–202 on transport costs. 64 Cf. Raepsaet (1984) on the transportation of Pentelic marble from the quarry to Eleusis. 65 Tracy (1970), p. 325 n. 35. Cf. three to five-and-a-half obols per 100 letters, IG VII 3073, ll. 10–12, Burford (1969), p. 49. 66 [Dem.] 43.57–58; Humphreys (1993), pp. 85–88; Morris (1992).

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figures from the events surrounding Theosebes’s sacrilege and the death of his parents and the notional cost of a tombstone will not present a full picture. If the 30 drachmai claimed by Isarchos suggests that a burial might have cost between roughly 10 and 20 drachmai for an individual, and if one added the notional cost of a burial marker, then the cost of 20 to 40 drachmai for a ‘burial’ and the erection of a funerary monument would be established. But this would fail to take into account a number of factors. How was a burial plot secured? Was land bought on which one would be buried and have a memorial erected? How was this arrangement negotiated? The cost of the burial of Theophilos and his wife may have been inappropriate for the sort of a burial process which would have included the establishment of a burial marker. That process would envisage subsequent care and attention for the deceased. Theosebes’s flight and the lack of any person to arrange the burial of his parents (apart from Isarchos, perhaps as demarch) would suggest that Theophilos and his wife were not going to receive the postmortem attention and ritual visits to the tomb that distinguish other burials. There is plenty of evidence for elaborate monuments and their costs: Davies indicates prices of 2,500 drachmai or even two talents, figures surely exceptionally high.67 However Plato’s Laws does at least offer one to five mnai—or 100 to 500 drachmai—as the range of costs for the complete burial, depending on one’s property class, for a burial of moderate cost.68 To propose 20 to 40 drachmai as a notional figure for a ‘cheap’ burial including the cost of erecting a simple funerary monument seems more unlikely in practice, particularly if one thinks of the wider burial rites that would have been involved rather than hypothetical calculations.69 67 Lysias 32.21, and [Dem.] 45.79 respectively. 68 Plato, Laws 959d. 69 Affordability: the well-worn example of one drachma per day for a skilled craftsman would require around a month or more of labour to earn the basic amount required and clearly this sort of person would have needed some money put away ‘at home’ for such ‘crises’. Cf. the 700 drachmai available to the father of the speaker of Lysias 19.

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No equation is presented here as to the proportion of known fourth-century funerary inscriptions which were set up by those who could have afforded this level of burial. The monuments in Kirchner’s Inscriptiones Graecae Pt. III are torn from their context, in terms of location (within a peribolos or not?) and are also detached from the burial process which must be considered in any discussion of these funerary inscriptions. Garland’s preliminary survey of the peribolos tombs illustrates the difficulties of restoring the context and circumstances in which one stone was originally located. A new project undertaken by the Greek Archaeological Society to collect all known funerary monuments in Attica may discover additional examples which can be restored to their original context.70 The archaeological, epigraphic and literary evidence does not indicate that the poor would necessarily have been well-represented among the fourth-century funerary inscriptions at Athens. The orthodoxy, challenged by Nielsen, still seems to be the right way to interpret the funerary monuments of fourth-century Athens, showing them to be memorials which the richer were more likely to have erected than the poor.71

70 See SEG 41.231 = B. Petrakos in Mentor 24, 1993, pp. 3–5. Another Greek project (ARMA) to publish the contemporary accounts of the discovery of ancient monuments in Attica by the Greek Archaeological Society will also facilitate the analysis of the context of the monuments found in the nineteenth century. See SEG 41.244 = Mentor 28, 1993, pp. 186–87. 71 A number of people have read this chapter or parts of it at various stages. I would like to thank Dr Gillian Clark, Professor John Davies, Dr Stephen Lambert, Professor W. T. Loomis, Professor Robin Osborne and Dr Karen Stears for their comments. I would like to offer this chapter to Professor Mogens Hansen as a token of thanks for the generous hospitality that he and his research team working on the Attic grave monuments at the University of Copenhagen offered me in August 1995.

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Bibliography Agora XIX = G. V. Lalonde, M. K. Langdon and M. B. Walbank, Inscriptions: Horoi, Poletai Records, Leases of Public Land (Agora XIX), Princeton, 1991. Burford, A. (1969), The Greek Temple Builders at Epidauros, Liverpool. Davidson, J. (1998), Courtesans and Fishcakes. The consuming passions of Classical Athens, London. Davies, J. K. (1971), Athenian Propertied Families, Oxford. Davies, J. K. (1984), ‘Cultural, Social and Economic Features of the Hellenistic World’, in CAH vol. VII. part 1, ed. A. E. Astin, M. W. Frederiksen, R. M. Ogilvie and F. W. Walbank, 2nd edn, Cambridge. Finley, M. I. (1953), ‘Multiple Charges on Real Property in Athenian Law: New Evidence from an Agora Inscription’, in Studi in onore di Vincenzo Arangio-Ruiz nel XLV anno del suo Insegnamento, vol. III, Naples. Garland, R. S. J. (1982), ‘A First Catalogue of Attic Peribolos Tombs’, BSA 77, pp. 125–76. Houby-Nielsen, S. H. (1998), ‘Revival of Archaic Funerary Practices in the Hellenistic and Roman Kerameikos’, Proceedings of the Danish Institute at Athens 2, pp. 127–45. Humphreys, S. C. (1985), ‘Lycurgus of Butadae: an Athenian aristocrat’, in The Craft of the Ancient Historian: Essays in Honor of Chester G. Starr, ed. J. W. Eadie and J. Ober, Lanham MD, pp. 199–252. Humphreys, S. C. (1993), The Family, Women and Death. Comparative Studies, 2nd edn, Ann Arbor. Kurtz, D. and J. Boardman (1971), Greek Burial Customs, London. Lambert, S. D. (1998), The Phratries of Attica, 2nd edn, Ann Arbor. Lawton, C. L. (1995), Attic Document Reliefs. Art and politics in ancient Athens, Oxford. Loomis, W. T. (1998), Wages, welfare costs and inflation in classical Athens, Ann Arbor. Matthaiou, A. P. (1987), ‘Erion Lukourgou Lukophronos Boutadou’, Horos 5, pp. 31–44. Meyer, E. A. (1993), ‘Epitaphs and Citizenship in Classical Athens’, JHS 113, pp. 99–121.

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Morris, I. (1992), Death-Ritual and Social Structure in Classical Antiquity, Cambridge. Nielsen, T. H., L. Bjertrup, M. H. Hansen, L. Rubenstein and T. Vestergaard (1989), ‘Athenian Grave Monuments and Social Class’, GRBS 30, pp. 411–20. Nolan, B. T. (1981), ‘Inscribing Costs at Athens in the Fourth Century BC’, diss. Ohio State University. Osborne, R. G. (1985), Demos: the Discovery of Classical Attika, Cambridge. Osborne, R. G. (1991), ‘The Potential Mobility of Human Populations’, OJA 10, pp. 231–52. Parker, R. (1983), Miasma. Pollution and Purification in early Greek Religion, Oxford. Parker-Pearson, M. (1982), ‘Mortuary practices, society and ideology: an ethnoarchaeological study’, in Symbolic and Structural Archaeology, ed. I. Hodder, Cambridge, pp. 99–113. Raepsaet, G. (1984), ‘Transport de tambours de colomes de Pentélique à Éleusis au IVe siècle avant notre ère’, AntCl 53, pp. 101–36. Schwenk, C. (1985), Athens in the Age of Alexander. The Dated Laws and Decrees of the ‘Lykourgan Era’ 338–322 BC, Chicago. Sundwall (1906), Epigraphische Beiträge zur sozial-politischen Geshichte Athens im Zeitalter des Demosthenes (Klio Beiheft 4), Leipzig. Tod, M. N. (1906–07), ‘An Unpublished Attic Decree’, BSA 9, pp. 154–75. Tracy, S. V. (1970), ‘Identifying Epigraphical Hands’, GRBS 11, pp. 321–33. Tracy, S. V. (1990), Attic Letter-Cutters of 229 to 86 BC, California. Whitehead, D. (1986), The Demes of Attica 508/7–ca. 250 BC, Princeton. Wycherley, R. E. (1978), The Stones of Athens, Princeton.

CHAPTER FOUR

Milesian Immigrants in Late Hellenistic and Roman Athens Torben Vestergaard Introduction: non-Athenians on tombstones in Attica

T

he richness of epigraphic material for studying ancient society is well established, but the largest single type of inscribed stone monument—the tombstone—has received relatively little attention. The city of Athens was the most active epigraphic city in the Greek world. Thousands of inscribed funerary monuments have survived from antiquity: the private sepulchral inscriptions from Attica so far published mention well over 12,000 men and women.1 This large body of material covers a period of more than 800 years, from the seventh century BC to the third century AD.2 It is possible to identify within this collection of material both Athenians and non-Athenians: counting persons inscribed in the nominative case 1 2

This article is based on the information from a database compiled in 1995 at the University of Copenhagen, Institute of Greek and Latin. Very few people are recorded in inscriptions dating from the Archaic period (seventh to sixth centuries BC) and from the third century AD and on.

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(leaving out fathers and husbands in the genitive), I have registered around 3,300 foreigners with ethnics.3 Of these less than two per cent date from the fifth century, about 15 per cent from the fourth century, nearly 40 per cent from the post-classical period including the first century BC (often called ‘Hellenistic’), and roughly 35 per cent from the Roman (imperial).4 One of the most remarkable features in the whole corpus of sepulchral inscriptions from Attica is the proportionally very large number of Milesians commemorated, especially in the period from around 100 BC until c. AD 200. Nearly 25 per cent of foreigners attested on tombstones in Attica are described as Milesians. Through frequent attestations of intermarriage with local citizens, the same material suggests that Milesians were more integrated in Athenian society than other foreigners. Historically, almost nothing is known about these Milesian immigrants; nothing is told in literary sources about why, when and how they migrated from their home town to Athens, nor does there exist any explicit information concerning their status as residents in Attica. Epigraphy is our only source of information for this phenomenon. The sepulchral inscriptions and, to a lesser extent, ephebic lists and a small number of other types of inscription provide much prosopographical information. In what follows we will discover how epigraphy offers a platform for uncovering social phenomena which would otherwise be unknown:

3

4

My corresponding number of Athenian citizens with demotics is roughly 4,000. The number of persons inscribed without demotics or ethnics is even higher (called ‘homines originis incertae’ in IG), a group which may include citizens as well as foreigners, isoteleis and slaves. Cf. Fraser (1995), pp. 66–68. I have found about 340 different ethnics, the earliest known examples dating back to c. 530 BC: IG I3 1344 (c. 525 BC); IG I3 1349 (c. 530 BC). About eight per cent of the persons with ethnics are inscribed on stones that have been left undated. Many post-Classical and Roman epitaphs can not be assigned to specific centuries; instead the rather vague dating formulae such as ‘Roman’ (aet. Rom.) or ‘after the end of the 4th century’ (‘post fin. s. IV’) as well as ‘split-centuries (3rd/2nd etc.)’ have been employed by the editors.

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the appearance of Milesians in late Hellenistic and Roman Athens is one indication of the movement of peoples in antiquity. The extraordinarily strong presence of Milesians in epitaphs and ephebic lists may at least partly be due to specific epigraphical habits: this group of immigrants, or some of them, may have felt it more important or natural than others to promote themselves in inscriptions. Milesians could display their prestigious connections to Athenian families in this way. In any case the Milesians in Attica amply deserve further study. What we have seen until now are brief comments in epigraphic publications (Boeckh in CIG, Kirchner in IG, Koumanoudes in AEE), and in treatises on the ephebeia (Dittenberger (1863), Dumont (1875–76), Reinmuth (1929), Follet (1988), Baslez (1989) and others), on the Attic deme-system (Ross (1846)) or on foreigners in general (Urdahl (1959)). There has been little attempt to explain the relatively large numbers of Milesians who appear among the funerary inscriptions of the non-Athenians in Attica. Foreigners seldom referred to their status in Attica. Nobody had ‘metoikos’ or ‘xenos’ written on his gravestone, nor the formula ‘oiko¯n en’ with deme-name, which was sometimes used in other contexts.5 Some isoteleis by contrast did declare their status and added ‘isoteles’ to their epitaphs, highlighting their status in Attica, not their ethnicity or citizenship in a foreign state.6 The foreigners with ethnics were never a ‘homogeneous’ mass that only differed in terms of citizenship, ethnicity and ethnics: in any period there was a considerable diversity of status, race, social position etc. The whole category of non-citizens was a mixture of free and free-born foreigners, freedmen and slaves;7 immigrants and descendants of immigrants; actual residents and ‘étrangers de passage’, or—in the classical period—metics who payed the metoikion, and xenoi who did 5 6 7

E.g. in catalogues mentioning manumitted slaves (IG II2 1553–78). Cf. Whitehead (1977), p. 33. Fraser (1995), p. 66. The number of such cases are relatively few, about 30, so we should imagine that some isoteleis were inscribed without reference to their specific status. That slaves could have ethnics added to their names is evident from IG I3 422, ll. 195–205 and 427 col. I.

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not and accordingly were not registered as metics; Hellenes and barbarians (some of the latter were citizens of Greek cities); rich and poor. Unfortunately it is very difficult to distinguish between these different types of foreigners in sepulchral inscriptions: though something can be achieved by studying the names of the deceased, it is still virtually impossible to differentiate for example the slaves and the freedmen. In my opinion however, there can be no doubt that the great majority were free residents: slaves are not likely to constitute more than a small proportion of the whole material, as typical slave names are not very common, no more than five per cent.8 The foreigners are identified by way of their ethnics, i.e. indications of citizenship or ethnicity. Two basic formulations of ethnic identifier were used on funerary inscriptions: (1) ethnics denoting whole regions, peoples or races, e.g. Boiotos, Syros, i.e. ethnics or ethnika in a true sense; (2) ethnics denoting poleis/citystates (Greek as well as barbarian), e.g. Milesios, Sidonios. In cases where citizenship of a political entity is implied, politika would actually be a more accurate term. In English however we should perhaps prefer city-ethnic as has recently been suggested by M. H. Hansen.9 Ethnics of both these types were occasionally specified. Thus we have the following two subtypes: (1a) Denoting regions and specific cities within the regions, e.g. Aigyptios ech Thebon (IG II2 7967), Makedon Prassios (IG II2 9269); and (2a) denoting cities and the regions where they are located, as e.g. Myesia ex Ionias (IG II2 9973), Solios apo Kyprou (IG II2 10382). Unfortunately, examples of (2a) are rare in sepulchral inscriptions; the majority of the many homonymous ‘city-ethnics’, e.g. Apolloniates, Herakleotes or Laodikeus, are never further specified. As there were several localities in the Greek world named Apollonia, Heraclea and Laodicea respectively, it is generally impossible to state which of these homonymous cities, and their respective ‘city-ethnics’, was meant in each particular case. 8 9

For the identification of slaves’ names in general, I have used Fragiadakis (1988). Hansen (1995), p. 51; Hansen (1996), p. 176.

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In many cases however, e.g. Milesios, Alexandreus or Antiocheus, it seems possible to arrive at a probable, when not absolute, identification of the city meant: in the words of Reinmuth ‘a city of some importance during the period in question will, all other things being equal, be the place of provenience … rather than a small and unimportant town with chances to be homonymous.’10 If we follow this reasonable, though still not very satisfactory, argument we should, as a general rule, attribute the persons carrying these three ethnics to the largest, the most important and the most famous of the homonymous places in question, namely Miletus in Ionia,11 Alexandria at Lake Mareotis in Egypt, and Antioch at the Orontes/Daphne in Syria.12 Who would actually believe that more than a few, if any, of these people originated in some of the (in most cases) rather obscure and remote places which happened to be homonymous?13 The reason why homonymous ethnics were so rarely specified and differentiated may lie in the fact that the funerary inscriptions belonged to the private sphere of life; to relatives and friends specifications would have seemed superfluous.14 Most ethnics refer to specific cities, towns, islands or regions that can be geographically located, ranging from Massalia and Carthage in the west to Persia in the east, and from Sarmatia north of the Black Sea to Thebes in southern Egypt. The majority of the foreigners 10 Reinmuth (1929), pp. 28–29. 11 Citizens of the homonymous Cretan town would probably have had their ethnics spelled in the Doric dialect (Milatios), as in McCabe and Plunkett no. 54, f. 6, line 6 Mila[t]ious as against Milesioi in lines 1 and 7. Cf. IG II2 9093: Chairias Kres Chersonasios (not Chersonesios). 12 Only one (of the 269) Antiochene has a specified ethnic, namely IG II2 8324: Philokrates Simonos Antiocheus apo Maiandrou. Did he have a specification added because Antiocheus usually was conceived as ‘Antiochene from the Orontes’? 13 Urdahl is less optimistic: ‘The problem of homonymy remains unresolved; and the Antiochs and Herakleias in the epitaphs cannot be further distinguished’ (1959, p. 32). 14 Specifications of ethnics were more common in other types of inscriptions (public and international), notably in catalogues listing Panathenaic champions, e.g. IG II2 2313–17.

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recorded on the funerary inscriptions came from Greece and the eastern Mediterranean, particularly Asia Minor. Persons carrying ethnics of Italian, Sicilian and other western Mediterranean sites are remarkably few.15 Some groups of foreigners, on the other hand, are worthy of note in not being represented at all in the surviving funerary inscriptions, for example the Abderites, the Illyrians, the Scythians16 and the Etruscans. However, no example or only one or two from any foreign city may of course be due to chance. More than 50 per cent of the attested ethnics occur only once or twice: our knowledge of the occurrence of these ethnics in Attica is based on the survival of just one or two inscriptions.17 The study of foreigners commemorated on tombstones in Attica reveals at least two very remarkable and highly interesting features: first, the strong numerical predominance of only three groups of foreigners; secondly, sex distribution which shows a very high proportion of women. I begin with the numerical predominance of three groups of ethnic: the Milesians, Heracleots and Antiochenes constitute 44 per cent of all foreigners. The largest single group are the Milesians (24.5 per cent of all foreigners), followed by the Heracleots (11 per cent) and Antiochenes (8.3 per cent).18 Other foreigners are far behind in numbers: the Ankyrans (2 per cent) and the Sinopeans (1.6 per cent) are respectively the fourth and 15 About 90 including the 32 Romans (Romaioi). See Garland (1987), p. 66, on foreigners in funerary inscriptions from the Piraeus: ‘The western Mediterranean, by contrast, is represented by only a few names from Italy and Sicily, evidently reflecting the fact that the Piraeus was better situated for trading with the east than with the west.’ 16 In IG II2 12623/24 Skythes seems to be a name, not an ethnic. 17 116 are represented by one single person and 60 by two persons. The great diversity of ethnics was not restricted to a specific period: for the fifth century BC 33 different ethnics are attested from among 43 persons only; as to the fourth century BC the corresponding numbers are 148 and 435; in the Hellenistic period the numbers are 197 and 1,259, and in the Roman imperial period 148 ethnics are known from among 1,166 individuals. 18 793 Milesians (24.5 per cent), 355 Heracleots (11 per cent) and 269 Antiochenes (8.3 per cent).

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fifth largest groups.19 The Milesians are by far the most numerous foreigners from about 100 BC to the second century AD. In the centuries AD they even constitute more than 50 per cent of the total number of persons with ethnics. The Heracleots predominate from the fourth to the second centuries BC, but are seldom encountered in the Roman period, a development suggesting that they came largely from only one of the many cities named Heraclea, probably Heraclea Pontica on the Black Sea coast of Asia Minor.20 The number of Antiochenes reached a peak in the first century BC and first century AD. These results may be surprising. A priori, one might have expected other city-states, for example the great neighbouring cities of Megara and Thebes, or in later times the Romans, to have constituted the largest contingents of foreigners in Attica. Also the number of oriental barbarians may seem surprisingly small (hardly more than 10 per cent of the ethnics in any period are barbarian) especially in the fourth century when we consider Xenophon’s statement from c. 355 BC that ‘many’ metics were barbarians such as Lydians, Phrygians and Syrians.21 Xenophon may have overestimated the number of such foreigners: it is a well-known and psychologically easily explainable feature to exaggerate the number of exactly those groups of immigrants that are the most exotic in appearance.22 The epigraphic material is conclusive: more Milesians are represented on funerary inscriptions than any other group. The second observation to be made about the appearance of foreigners on the tombstones found in Attica concerns sex distribution. Of the total number of foreigners 51.8 per cent are men, and 45.8 per cent are women; for the remaining 2.4 per cent it has not been possible to state the sex owing to lacunas in the text. The percentage of women is remarkably smaller in the earlier centuries: in the fifth century females only constitute 14 per cent 19 Ankyrans 66 persons and the Sinopeans 54. 20 See Isager and Hansen (1975), pp. 218–19. 21 Xen. Poroi 2.3. For a discussion of this passage, see e.g. Gauthier (1976), pp. 63–64 (with references); Gauthier (1972), pp. 123–25. 22 Cf. Hall (1997), p. 47.

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of the attested persons, in the fourth century 34.7 per cent, and in the third century 39.8 per cent. Proportionately more women’s names appear on gravestones in the Hellenistic and Roman periods: from the second century BC to the second century AD the number is constantly around 50 per cent.23 The percentages can also vary greatly from one group of foreigners to another: among the Corinthians for example, the women were far more numerous than men even in the fourth century (six women and one man attested), and also in the Hellenistic period (12 women and five men attested), whereas e.g. the Nikomedeans mostly were men, even though they are only represented in the Hellenistic (four men and one woman attested) and Roman imperial (seven men and four women attested) periods. The total proportion of women among foreigners is considerably higher than among Athenians where only 34 per cent are of female sex (over largely the same chronological distribution). These observations suggest two not mutually exclusive conclusions: (1) the number of foreign women resident in Attica was large, at least from the fourth century and on, and in any case it was not so small as has been assumed before by some scholars;24 (2) the significant increase in the number of foreign women on tombstones in the later Hellenistic period indicates a major shift in recording practices which requires explanation. Epigraphical habits were significantly different for foreign women than Athenian women. Until the third century BC at least, foreign women payed the metoikion and were registered as metics. In the words of Whitehead: ‘Surely to the Athenians metoikoi did include women just as self-evidently as Athenaioi did not; the two definitions simply had different bases.’25 It is very significant that the foreign/metic women generally had their ethnics in the nominative feminine (as e.g. Milesia, Antiochissa), contrary to citizen women, who 23 Second century BC: 49.6 per cent; first century BC: 51 per cent; Roman period as a whole (including inscriptions dated ‘Roman’, ‘imperial’): 48 per cent. 24 Notably Clerc (1893), followed by Whitehead (1977), p. 97: ‘Clerc was doubtless right, nevertheless, that the number of such women was small.’ 25 Whitehead (1977), p. 97.

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almost always carried demotics in the genitive masculine, i.e. the demotics of their fathers and husbands.26 Perhaps foreign women enjoyed a freedom of movement which their Athenian counterparts did not? The notorious female metic Neaira, a former prostitute, was described as an ‘independent’ woman who was her own guardian.27 The appearance and changes in the representation of foreign women on tombstones in Attica may have some relationship with the domination of the Milesians in later Hellenistic and Roman periods.

Milesians in Attica

T

he central question here concerns the Milesian presence in Attica: why did Milesians emigrate to Attica in such considerable numbers? Did they enjoy any special status, as has been suggested by some scholars—and in such case which status—or did they only differ from other immigrants in being simply more numerous? To answer any or all of these questions requires some consideration of the nature of the evidence. Do the funerary inscriptions/monuments really represent the relative sizes of the actual foreign population? It is conceivable that some groups of immigrants generally preferred to return to their home countries after having stayed in Attica for some years and left less impact in the epigraphic record than their numbers would otherwise have assumed.28 Some may have preferred alternative ways of commemorating their dead relatives which have left no record: but to my knowledge there is little evidence for such practices. It is possible that some non-Athenians were Hellenized and thus ‘hidden’ behind Greek names and ethnics of Greek-Hellenistic cities. In fact, it has been argued that the extraordinarily large group of Milesians attested in Roman times may have absorbed and included people that were not Milesians of origin, in a kind of 26 The few exceptions, mostly dating from the Roman period, are mentioned in Vestergaard et al. (1992), p. 8 n. 7. 27 [Dem.] 59.46. Cf. e.g. MacDowell (1978), p. 84; Zimmern (1961), p. 341. 28 Gauthier (1972), p. 124 n. 55.

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‘sub-community’.29 But prosopographical and onomastic research does not reveal any large proportion of barbarians, slaves or freedmen within the group of Milesians in Attica. It is difficult not to conclude that the presence of Milesians on funerary inscriptions is the result of their extremely large numbers. Other epigraphic sources—notably ephebic lists—support the evidence of the epitaphs in this respect. The Milesians in particular would have had good reasons for emigrating to Attica. But we should also consider the possibility that specific epigraphical habits were current among certain groups of people in certain areas under certain circumstances. These may have applied especially to the Milesians. Many of them are known to have had very close connections to local Athenian families. Their relationship with Athenians may have given them prestige and status which attracted more Milesians to the city and more of the kind who were likely to leave epigraphic testimonia. These issues remain relevant to any discussion of the Milesian presence in Attica. The number of Milesians commemorated in epitaphs from Attica is considerable in any period. In inscriptions from Classical and Early Hellenistic times, however, the Milesians do not constitute the most numerous group of foreigners. Although residents from Miletus are among the largest groups recorded,30 they are not more numerous than we should expect when we compare them with the contingents of other cities of roughly the same size and importance, e.g. Ephesos, Megara, Plataia or Samos. The most remarkable and most numerous group of foreigners in the Classical and Early Hellenistic periods are the Heracleots: in epitaphs from the fourth to third centuries BC they outnumber the Milesians by roughly three to one. From about 100 BC we can register a sharp rise in the number of Milesians: from the second century BC they constitute 7.4 per cent of all foreigners, for the first century BC 20.4 per cent, and in the 29 Baslez (1989), p. 26. 30 Commercial relations between the two cities were important in Classical and Early Hellenistic times, cf. Röhlig (1933), pp. 44–45 (see further below). On the best known of all Milesians in Classical Athens, Aspasia, see Henry (1995).

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following two centuries AD proportion increases to 35.3 per cent and 76.36 per cent respectively.31 About 90 per cent of all the preserved monuments recording Milesians are dated within the period from c. 100 BC to around AD 200. Other groups of foreigners are far behind in numbers during the Roman era, and the size of their contingents often decreases except for the Romans and the residents of a few oriental cities such as the Laodiceans, Nicomedeans and the Antiochenes from Syria, the latter constituting the second largest group after the Milesians. The evidence of the funerary monuments is supported by the inscribed ephebic lists. From about the same time (123/22 BC) the Milesians are represented in the ephebic lists,32 and from around the middle of the first century BC they were the largest group of non-Athenians serving as ephebes.33 In lists dating from the imperial period they are sometimes even more numerous than the Athenian citizens, as in IG II2 2024 (AD 111/12), which has 79 Milesians listed and only 24 Athenian citizens. The former are inscribed en bloc under the common heading Milesioi, a fact that has led some scholars to assume that the ethnic was used as a collective name for all non-Athenians,34 i.e. as a pars maxima pro toto. This assumption 31 Second century BC: 20; first century BC 72; first century AD: 102; second century AD 126. 32 IG II2 1006 and 1031 from 123/22 BC (cf. Reinmuth (1972), p. 191; Follet (1988), p. 21), the first inscription of the kind mentioning foreigners, has one Milesian among 14 foreigners, all placed under the heading xenoi. IG II2 1009 (116/15 BC) has three Milesians with individual ethnics listed as ephebes side by side with nine other foreigners, (cf. Bardani (1989) for a list with two foreigners dated c. 120 BC). So we may say that the Milesians were strongly represented among foreigners in the ephebeia already from the first years of the admission of non-Athenians into that institution. As will be argued further below, it can hardly be a coincidence that so many Milesians came to Athens at the same time as foreigners were admitted into the most prestigious of all ephebeiai. 33 Follet (1988), p. 28. 34 Graindor (1931), p. 88. Reinmuth (1929), p. 46. Cf. Baslez (1989), p. 24, who notes that this list was a private monument that may not have been following the categorization of ephebes in the same way as official lists. Graindor states

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is contradicted by the evidence of the epitaphs: other foreigners at this time still use their own ethnics, and the Milesians really were an extraordinary group. It has also been argued that the Milesian ephebes may have stayed in Athens temporarily for their education.35 But again the funerary inscriptions strongly suggest that these young men were part of a large community already resident in Attica. The Milesian immigrants were not only men: the funerary inscriptions suggest that in the Roman centuries over 50 per cent were women. This is a remarkably high percentage when we compare the figure not only with citizens, but also with other foreigners in general. This is probably a reflection of epigraphical habits among Milesians rather than any indication that the proportion of women was exceedingly high. Nevertheless the discrepancy is still significant. As a considerable number of these women are known to have been married to Athenians (more than 10 per cent in Roman times, see below), it is obvious to assume that their names are inscribed as a result of their social success in Athenian society. Furthermore, it is worth noting the relatively numerous Milesian women with metronymics, i.e. their mother’s instead of their father’s name in the genitive.36 These may have been illegitimate children of prostitutes.

Milesian migrations

P

robably all the Milesians (or their parents/ancestors) had come from the city of Miletus in Ionia or from its neighbourhood (smaller meighbouring towns, like Pidasa, were absorbed by synoikism).37 It is unlikely that inhabitants of small homonymous towns are represented (1931, p. 88) that the names of two Milesians were Roman, but that would certainly not exclude that they had come from Miletus. 35 Graindor (1914), p. 424. 36 14 Milesians with metronymics as against three other foreigners. Cf. Christophilopoulos (1946), pp. 130–39; Baslez (1989), p. 26. 37 Probably 164 BC. McCabe and Plunkett (1984), no. 61. Cf. Archaeological Note below.

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(see above), nor do I see any good reason for assuming that other foreigners were absorbed by the large group of Milesians and ‘hidden’ behind the ethnic Milesios: there are relatively few persons bearing typical slave names or barbarian names found among the Milesians. Those named Galates, Maes, Sambation, etc. number no more than five per cent. These may have been freedmen originating in Miletus. It is noteworthy that not only Attica was the destination of Milesian immigrants: from Aigiale, one of the three cities on the island of Amorgos in the southern Cyclades, we have rich epigraphical evidence of the existence of a Milesian community that even issued its own decrees and appears to have been a regular polis. Remarkably a Milesian settlement seems to have existed here from about the same time as the great influx of Milesians into Attica began, if a coin dating from the first century BC and showing the effigy of the (Milesian) lion on the reverse is sufficient testimony.38 Only two of the community’s decrees which mention the Roman consuls of the year can be dated accurately: IG XII 396 (AD 153) and 397 (AD 207). This remarkable Milesian settlement, which—at least in the later Roman centuries—had its own political institutions (boule, archontes etc.), and even may have absorbed the local inhabitants, appears to be attested roughly during the same span of time as the extraordinarily large contingent of Milesians in Attica, whose status and rights do not seem to have been exceptional (see further below). Anyhow, the apparent large-scale emigration from Miletus taking place around 100 BC was mainly directed towards Attica: it is not likely that the Milesians in a small town like Aigiale were anything like as numerous as their former compatriots living in Attica. It seems that there was a general tendency in post-Classical migrations and settlements, at least within the Aegean area: emigrants with a common background were not evenly spread, but clustered in certain cities. So there was a great influx of immigrants from Miletus into Attica from the end of the second century BC. Was this the only large38 Bechtel (1887), p. 40. I will treat this and other features concerning the Milesian colony on Amorgos in a forthcoming study.

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scale immigration wave or did the flow of immigrants continue in the following centuries? The steady increase in numbers in the imperial period inscriptions may seem to indicate that the immigration went on. Of course the increasing numbers of the later centuries may also have been the product of the natural growth of the residing Milesian community. The occurrence of a remarkable double ethnic on a gravestone in the mid-first century AD seems to show that at least one of the residents was a newcomer, and why should he have been the only one? The inscription in question is IG II2 9475 with the ethnic Kaisareus Milesios (the only known example of a specified Milesian ethnic). L. Robert studied thoroughly this and other double ethnics and he pointed out that some cities in Asia Minor (Tralles, Kyme, Kibyra etc.), which had been damaged by earthquakes in the first century AD, took the name Kaisareia and the ethnic Kaisareus and prefixed it to their own cities’ names and ethnics in gratitude for the emperor’s help in financing the reconstruction of their respective cities.39 In the case of Miletus, IG II2 9475 is the only attestation at all of such a name having been used for that city and its inhabitants. Although the evidence is scarce, Robert’s explanation is doubtless right. The double names and ethnics were only temporarily used: the inscription should definitely be dated to the first century AD.40 Moreover, it seems unlikely to me that a Milesian who had settled in Attica before such a disaster would have adopted an ethnic developed in his city of origin in consequence of the disaster. The inference is that he migrated after some catastrophe, which accordingly suggests that migration from Miletus to Attica was still going on in the first century AD, more than a century after the great influx of immigrants began. Continued immigration in the centuries after 100 BC may have had the character of a self-increasing process: the presence of an already large Milesian colony in Attica may have attracted still more and more emigrants from Miletus: they would have been more easily 39 Robert (1977), pp. 217–18. 40 Robert (1977), p. 218.

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integrated, and would have felt more at home in a place where many compatriots were already living. The sentiments causing such situations are well-known from migration and settlement patterns of more modern history, as for example in different parts of the USA.41 Although we can not say with certainty how the migration took place, can we uncover the motive(s) behind it? What induced so many Milesians to leave their homes and take up their new residence in Attica? Unfortunately, there does not exist any relevant explicit information in the preserved literature or inscriptions: we can only conjecture on what happened, mostly on the basis of the epitaphs and the ephebic lists that are our only sources for the remarkable Milesian settlement in Attica. The fact that there already was a sizeable Milesian community in Attica in Classical and Hellenistic times is not a sufficient explanation for the very sharp rise in numbers of immigrants from the second to the first century BC. The long-standing presence of Milesians may have been one of the main factors that encouraged many others to choose Attica as their new home,42 but it does not really explain why they left their home city. If we assume that there was a single large-scale emigration wave, we might a priori suppose that it was caused by war, civil unrest, revolution or a sudden natural disaster, in other words, that the Milesians were refugees. From what we know about the history of Miletus,43 however, I can see no good reason for making such an assumption. The Mithridatic war in the 80s and the frequent pirate attacks until the campaign of Pompey (he was honoured in Miletus in 63 BC) may have done some damage to the city and its economy, but hardly so much as to cause a massive emigration. Athens itself was probably harder hit by war at this time, as Sulla’s 41 Hall (1997), p. 134. 42 Day (1942), pp. 217–18 n. 223. 43 For a survey of the history of Miletus, see e.g. the article of F. Hiller v. Gaertringen in the R-E, vol. XV, 2, 1586–1622 (1932). For the inscriptions see McCabe and Plunkett (1984), or Milet VI, 1 (A. Rehm and P. Hermann, Berlin, 1997), VI, 2 (P. Hermann, Berlin, 1998).

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troops had plundered the city very thoroughly in 86 BC. Miletus lost its political independence in 78 BC and was incorporated into the Roman province of Asia, but even though it suffered from the extortions of Roman tax collectors, the prosperity of Miletus does not seem to have been seriously affected in the following years.44 I prefer to believe that the immigration went on over the span of more centuries (cf. above), and consequently that there were other, less dramatic motives for it than any single event.45 At about 100 BC the great slave markets were booming, especially that on Delos, which lies on the route between Miletus and Athens. At this time Delos was an Athenian cleruchy. Slaves might have come to Athens via Miletus and Delos, and they may have carried the ethnic of the former city upon manumission (the ethnic Delios is very rarely attested in the Athenian epitaphs). As only about 5 per cent of the Milesians carried names that suggest servile or barbarian origin, it seems unlikely that the slave trade should have produced the large numbers of Milesians in Athens. However, some prisoners of war originating from Miletus may have been among the slaves, as well as Milesians who had been captured by pirates, so the possibility that some of the Milesians had come to Athens via Delos in this way can not be ruled out. One may also suppose that a treaty of isopoliteia between Athens and Miletus existed and that this gave the cities a special relationship. But isopoliteia would have implied the potential right to citizenship for Milesians in Athens and vice versa. Such a treaty is not preserved in the known sources but, as will be argued below, there was probably never any such treaty, as the Milesians generally were not granted citizenship in Athens. In my view the following four circumstances were the most probable motives for the large-scale migration from Miletus to Athens: the first reflects the wish to leave Miletus, the other three prompted the choice of Attica as the destination of immigration. 44 Röhlig (1933, p. 63) refers to costly war efforts against pirates, flourishing wool trade and much building activity as evidence of continuing prosperity after 78 BC. Cf. Archaeological Note, below. 45 Körte (1941), p. 515.

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The decline of the port of Miletus and the economic consequences

I

t can be argued that emigration from Miletus was stimulated by the beginning of the decline of the port: the harbours and their access to the sea, the Latmos Bay, were silting up and stagnating perhaps already in late Hellenistic times, thus making the once so flourishing trade more difficult. Röhlig notes: ‘Die immer mehr zunehmende Versandung der Häfen, die bereits im 1. Jahrh. v. Chr. begonnen hatte, ließ den Seehandel immer mehr zurückgehen und schließlich ganz ersterben.’46 Though the financial situation of the city’s treasury and of a certain number of citizens may still have been prosperous, the opportunities in terms of employment may have become seriously reduced for many of the city’s inhabitants. In the imperial period the conditions in reality grew worse: the impressive buildings dating from the centuries AD47 mainly reflect the economic capacity of the emperors and other foreigners, not the prosperity of its own citizens. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff writes: ‘Chariton von Aphrodisias schildert es (sc. Miletos) im ersten Jahrhundert noch als Großstadt. Aber Schein war das doch nur … Offenbar wich das Leben immermehr aus dem versandeten Hafen; die Leute hatten zu Hause nichts zu leben. Ja wenn die Kaiser Deiche und Kanäle angelegt hätten statt Prachtfassaden oder gar Thermen, die doch nur Körper und Geist entnervten’ (!).48 Let me just add the statements of Broughton on the imperial period: ‘Building and renovations were considerable in amount, but a large proportion was done with imperial aid, and hardly any names of private donors are known. It is probable that the city was declining in importance with the rest of the Carian coast as the cities to the northward expanded.’49 The decline of Miletus’s port and its trade was due not only 46 47 48 49

Röhlig (1933), p. 63. Cf. Archaeological Note below. A list of buildings and donators is given by Broughton (1938), pp. 755–56. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1914), pp. 89–90. Broughton (1938), p. 755.

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to the sanding up of the Latmos Bay—itself probably a very slow process that would not have prompted sudden large-scale emigration—but also the growing competition of other ports. In the late Hellenistic period Delos was a major competitor to Miletus and its trade after the Romans made the island-port free of duty in 166 BC.50 In the same year the island had been handed over to the Athenians under whom it became a flourishing commercial centre that prospered at least until it was plundered by Mithradates’s fleet in 88 BC. Even Rhodes, before the greatest commercial power in the region, seems to have been hard hit by the consequences of the emergence of this privileged new competitor.51 So how could Miletus have escaped? Very few Milesian traders went to Delos: in the many Delian dedicatory inscriptions dating from the period after 166 BC I have only found one Milesian among several hundreds of non-Athenian donors.52 It is very probable that both trade and the port of Miletus (the former depended very much on the latter, of course) was in decline around 100 BC, a state of affairs which could easily have induced a large number of Milesians to emigrate. But why did the large majority of these emigrants go to Athens?

The traditionally close ties between Miletus and Athens

F

or the Ionian cities on the west coast of Asia Minor, Athens was the mother-city.53 It could claim to be the ‘oldest Ionian land’,54 and the supposed ethnic kinship was felt throughout Antiquity.55 In

50 Röhlig (1933), p. 44. 51 Polybius 30, 31, 10. 52 ID 2103 (dated 114–15 BC). Of other foreigners the most numerous were Romans, other Italians and Antiochenes. 53 Called he metropolis hemon in an inscription from Priene (I Priene 109, ll. 47–49). Cf. e.g. Habicht (1997), pp. 27, 229. 54 Ps-Aristotle Ath. Pol. 5 (quotation of a poem by Solon). 55 For a discussion of this kinship, see Hall (1997), pp. 51–56; Günther (1998), p. 21.

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any case the Athenians and the eastern Ionians were closely related in terms of language (dialect) and religion, and the relationship also often implied close contacts in trade and politics. Reinmuth was undoubtedly right when stating that ‘Ionian cities would in all likelihood have stronger feelings of affinity for Athens than if they were not Ionian cities.’56 The relationship between Athens and Miletus was no exception: commercial intercourse was developed from the sixth century BC and reached its climax in the fifth century. In the following centuries it continued in spite of the difficulties caused by wars and political upheaval.57 As is well known, the political connection between the two cities was close from the time of the Ionian revolt in the 490s and throughout the Classical period, at least when it was not made impossible by Persian occupation. In any case, Miletus’s deep-rooted ethnic, religious, commercial and political connections with Athens do not seem to have been weakened in the late Hellenistic period. In the second century BC the relations seem to have been intensified.58 In the 180s three Athenian ambassadors were in Miletus to reconcile the Milesians with the Magnesians.59 In the middle of the century, members of religious embassies as well as individual Milesians were honoured in Athenian decrees: IG II2 992 mentions six envoys (theoroi) who had been sent to Attica as Milesian representatives at the Eleusinian mysteries;60 IG II2 982 honours Menestheus who was granted citizenship;61 IG II2 985 honours a person whose name is not preserved. A newly published inscription from Miletus, probably dating from the 170s or 160s BC, records Milesian theoroi who were granted Athenian 56 57 58 59

Reinmuth (1929), p. 33. Röhlig (1933), pp. 40–45. Günther (1998), pp. 23–32. McCabe and Plunkett (1984), nr. 60. Habicht (1997), p. 229. This treaty, traditionally dated 196 BC, has recently been redated convincingly to the late 180s, Errington (1989), pp. 279–88. 60 Habicht (1991); Habicht (1997), pp. 229–30. 61 Habicht (1997), pp. 281–82, with further references.

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citizenship.62 Later the Athenian Menedemos was appointed proxenos in Miletus for his ‘good deed’.63 Unfortunately the inscription that mentions him is broken where the name of the eponymous magistrate (stephanophoros) was inscribed, so it can only be dated approximately (end of second or first century BC according to McCabe/Plunkett). It is tempting to assume that this man was honoured because he took care of the interests of the rapidly growing Milesian community in Attica.

The admission of foreigners to the Athenian ephebeia and the decline of the local ephebeia in Miletus

A

s has been mentioned above, the oldest known ephebic list that includes foreigners dates from 123/22 BC. Only one Milesian was inscribed, but already 16 years later, in the third oldest of the extant ephebic inscriptions listing foreigners, three out of 10 persons with identifiable ethnics are Milesians, and in the following years they seem to have been fairly constantly represented. From the middle of the first century BC about 50 per cent of all foreign ephebes were Milesians. Thus the sharp rise in numbers of Milesians commemorated in epitaphs appears to coincide chronologically with the beginning of Milesian representation in the ephebeia. I see no reason to doubt that there was a connection, and that the majority of the male immigrants from Miletus came to Athens to be enrolled in that city’s famous educational institution. As is evident from the funerary inscriptions, a large proportion of the Milesian immigrants were women. However, this fact can not be used as a serious objection against the assumption that participation in the ephebeia was the main reason for Milesian immigration: the women may simply have followed their sons and

62 Günther (1992) = SEG 42.1072. 63 McCabe and Plunkett (1984), no. 192.

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brothers to Athens. Whole families may have gone there to see their sons serve in the most prestigious of all educational establishments. They might have returned to their home city after the end of service, but the evidence of the funerary inscriptions is a strong indication that they stayed. The Athenian ephebeia was particularly attractive to foreigners: it was often imitated in other cities, particularly in Asia Minor.64 In addition Athens was ‘the intellectual capital of the world’ at this time. Reinmuth notes: ‘The reason why ephebic training at Athens was so attractive to many young men from centers that had an ephebic organization of their own is doubtless that Athens offered superior training amid surroundings which were replete with historical associations and in a country which was the cradle of the fine arts.’65 I would not exclude that such sentimental feelings could have been of much importance for potential immigrants. The existence of a local ephebeia in Miletus is attested in at least three inscriptions, the first dating from c. 260 BC,66 the second from about 130 BC,67 the third from c. 100 BC.68 The fact that there is little or dubious evidence of local ephebes after c. 100 BC69 may of course be due to chance. However, we may also simply assume (however hazardous it may seem to rely on an argumentum e silentio) that the institution ceased to exist, or at least was declining in importance, from the time when non-Athenians were allowed to be enrolled in the Athenian ephebeia. Many Milesians would not have found it worth while to continue organizing a local institution that was only an imitation. In my view, Reinmuth confuses cause and effect when he states: ‘For reasons that we do not know, the ephebeia at Miletus was on the wane during the first century before Christ. The ephebi of Miletus were drawn in increasingly large numbers 64 65 66 67 68 69

Reinmuth (1929), pp. 35–43. Reinmuth (1929), p. 42. McCabe and Plunkett (1984), no. 34. McCabe and Plunkett (1984), no. 12 (Milet VI, 1, 203). Milet VI, 1, 368. Milet VI, 2, 756 (a funerary epigram (first century AD) mentioning a young man who apparently served as an ephebe).

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to the famous Athenian ephebeia.’70 The funerary inscriptions and the ephebic lists from both cities seem to indicate that large numbers of Milesians went to Athens around 100 BC to participate in the Athenian ephebeia and settle down as residents. As a result, greater numbers of Milesians participated in the Athenian ephebeia, more Milesians appeared in Athens and Miletus’s ephebeia never revived. However, the admission to the ephebeia was not the only new opening towards foreigners in Attica, particularly those from Miletus.

The lifting of the ban on intermarriage between Athenians and foreigners

T

he funerary inscriptions from Athens show that there was no longer any ban on mixed marriages from the second century BC. In the late Hellenistic and Roman periods, alliances between Athenians and foreigners, especially Athenian men and foreign women, appear to have been fairly common. Privileges of citizenship were not as important in Greek city-states as earlier; the Romans had deprived the cities of much of their former independence, and the differences between citizens and non-citizens in local communities were diminishing.71 It was not surprising that old city-states opened up to a new type of immigrant who was more closely attached to the local citizens through intermarriage and thus differed from the metics of the classical period. In Attica the Milesians were the most noticeable among this type of new immigrant: they are more often than other foreigners attested in marriages between citizens and non-Athenians.72 In 35.4 per cent of the mixed citizen–foreigner 70 Reinmuth (1929), p. 42. 71 Cf. Vatin (1970), p. 126. 72 I have counted 130 mixed citizen–foreigner marriages from the funerary inscriptions: 46 Athenian–Milesian marriages; in comparison, there are seven instances of Milesians married to compatriots and, in 14 cases, Milesians are married to other foreigners with ethnics.

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marriages, the foreigners are Milesians. But in the period from c. 100 BC to the end of the Roman era they constitute 43.8 per cent: an even higher percentage than the proportion (39.5 per cent) of Milesians among the total number of foreigners in the same period. Moreover it is noteworthy that, already before 100 BC, the Milesians were the most popular foreign partners in the attested mixed marriages. Here the above-mentioned close ties between Miletus and Athens may have been the important factor. So the removal of the ban on mixed marriages in the second century BC may have been another reason for the massive Milesian immigration that began some years later. Women in particular seem to have been attracted by the recently introduced opportunity to marry Athenian citizens (44 women and 2 men are known to have had Athenian spouses), but that may only be an epigraphical feature: Athenian women—or their surviving Athenian family—married to Milesians may have been reluctant to include their husband’s name on their own tombstones. Men never have their wives’ names added explicitly.

Conclusions

I

n the epigraphical sources, the Milesians are the most significant group of foreigners in late Hellenistic and Roman Athens. For that reason alone they were probably far more numerous than any other immigrants. Did they only differ from the other groups in being simply more numerous, or did they enjoy any particular status or any special privileges apart from that? The sepulchral inscriptions show not only that they intermarried with Athenians frequently, but also that they were attached to Athenian families in group compositions more often than in proportion to their numbers.73 They were also proportionally more frequently than other foreigners inscribed on monuments erected in provincial demes, demes that generally did 73 Baslez (1989), p. 26.

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not attract many foreigners.74 Moreover, some Milesians worked in agriculture, as can be inferred from scenes shown on funerary reliefs.75 From inscriptions listing ephebes and archons we know that Milesians filled offices as attendants, servants and trainers that no other foreigners are known to have filled.76 So it seems evident that the Milesians were more successful and more integrated into Athenian society than any other group of immigrants. On the other hand, they did not as a whole become Athenian citizens, and it is impossible to say how many Milesians received Athenian citizenship. Naturalized Milesians would carry demotics only, and so disappear as Milesians in our sources. As has been noted above, the Milesians in Aigiale formed an independent community that issued its own decrees. From the preambles of these decrees it appears that they had a popular assembly, a council and magistrates of their own. They called themselves not simply ‘Milesians’, but ‘Milesians living in Aigiale’ in the way of a cleruchy. There is absolutely no evidence that the Milesians in Attica had a similar status: they did not constitute a political community, but were rather an unorganized group of immigrants. We can also safely disregard the theories proposed by Boeckh in 1828, that a separate Milesian deme was created, or that a treaty of isopoliteia existed between Athens and Miletus.77 As to the former theory, Milesian women almost always had their ethnics (not demotics!) in the nominative feminine, contrary to citizens who generally carried demotics in the genitive masculine,78 and 74 44 Milesians (16 men and 26 women) are known from gravestones with a provincial provenance: 39 dating from the Roman centuries, five undated. Other foreigners in the Roman period: 24. So the Milesians constitute no less than 61.9 per cent. Milesian women may often have moved to remoter parts of Attica with their Athenian husbands. 75 IG II2 9446; 9631; 9432; 9753 (the man’s occupation as a vine-dresser is stated explicitly in the epitaph (anpelourgos). Cf. Day (1942), p. 218; Baslez (1989), p. 25. 76 IG II2 2086; 2097; 1721; 1728; 1729; 1731. 77 CIG ad no. 692. 78 Vestergaard et al. (1985), p. 180.

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no councillors from a deme called Miletus are known in bouleutic lists. As to the latter, a reciprocal isopolity treaty between two cities implied that citizens of one city were potential citizens of the other city. If they settled there, they would have the right to be granted citizenship,79 which was clearly not the case for the Milesians as a whole. In fact, M.-F. Baslez may very well be right in simply stating: ‘Les Milésiens d’Athènes occupaient certainement une place particulière dans la cité, non pas tant en raison de privilèges statutaires que parce qu’ils vivaient en symbiose avec les citoyens comme l’attestent la fréquence des inter-marriages et l’accueil de Milésiens dans des sépultures familiales d’Athéniens.’80 According to Baslez, there was a general change in the attitude towards foreigners in Roman Athens: foreigners were regarded as ‘state-less’ individuals who could more easily be assimilated and integrated than the metics of earlier periods; there was a new ‘social dynamic’, and the development of Roman-style institutions such as amicitia and clientela would have made connections between families of different status more widespread than ever before. So this new ‘symbiosis’ was particularly common between Athenian and Milesian families. More recently, S. Alcock has remarked on the sentiments and social contexts concerning immigrants in Roman Greece, talking about ‘notable families becoming more cosmopolitan in their friendships, allegiances and outlook’ and ‘the growth of this (in this case, Achaian) supra-local aristocracy … some shift in élite goodwill away from home communities, making more prominent “alien” cities their new arena for benefaction and display.’81 Thus well-to-do and/or intellectual Milesians may easily have found Athens the right and most prestigious place to realize themselves in company with similarly disposed Athenians and other foreigners. Let me add the following very interesting statements by Vatin about the late Hellenistic and Roman periods: ‘Dans les grandes villes 79 Tarn and Griffith (1952), pp. 72 and 85. Gawantka (1975), pp. 207 ff. 80 Baslez (1989), pp. 25–26. 81 Alcock (1993), p. 155.

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commerçantes la population croît en marge de la cité; des étrangers viennent de tous les horizons du monde hellénique s’installer à Athènes, à Délos, à Rhodes, à Milet: bien souvent ils ne songent pas à retourner dans leur patrie d’origine et se soucient assez peu de droits politiques qui ont perdu beaucoup de leur signification et même de leur prestige; ces étrangers se marient entre eux, font souche, et tendent à constituer une classe homogène de Grecs portant leur ethnique d’origine par tradition, mais en vérité citoyens du monde, car ils n’appartiennent plus à une cité.’82 In my view, the statements cited above are extremely relevant for the proper understanding of the status and whole background of the Milesian community in Attica. Our knowledge of the status of foreigners in Roman Athens is scanty and uncertain, but the general change in attitude towards foreigners in the Hellenic world in Roman times is indisputable, not least thanks to the evidence of Athenian funerary inscriptions. In the late Hellenistic and Roman periods there was considerable migration between different Greek cities. The emigrants generally stayed and settled abroad, even though they were not granted citizenship in their new home cities. The possibility of intermarriage and/or attachment to local families were more important factors for immigrants than political rights. The Milesians who began to migrate to Attica in large numbers from about 100 BC were encouraged to do so partly for economic and sentimental reasons, partly because new possibilities had recently been opened for foreigners: intermarriage and the admission to the famous Athenian ephebeia. The Athenians still generally kept their political rights for themselves, but what really mattered to the Milesians was the private sphere, not the participation in public affairs. The Milesians continued using their ethnic Milesios, but it may have been regarded more as a kind of surname than an indication of origin and status, at least in the imperial period when Milesian families had lived in Attica for generations. Many Milesians married compatriots or other foreigners, but that this group of foreigners was particularly successful in 82 Vatin (1970), p. 129.

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Athenian society is evident from the relatively numerous attestations of marriages with Athenians, admission into citizen family-group inscriptions and participation in the ephebeia. Thus a symbiosis or integration developed, which was based on affinity or friendship, not on any legally defined privileges for Milesians. The funerary monuments are the most important record of the Milesians in Attica: they were the example par excellence of the new, more cosmopolitan and state-less type of immigrants in late Hellenistic and Roman Greece.

Bibliography Alcock, S. E. (1993), Graecia capta. The Landscapes of Roman Greece, Cambridge. Bardani, V. (1989), ‘Anathimatiki epigraphi Athineon ephibon’, Horos 7, pp. 17–21. Baslez, M.-F. (1989), ‘Citoyens et non citoyens dans l’Athènes impériale au Ier et au IIe siècles de notre ère’, in The Greek Renaissance in the Roman Empire (BICS Supplement 55), ed. S. Walker and A. Cameron, London, pp. 17–36. Bechtel, F. (1887), Die Inschriften des Ionischen Dialekts, Göttingen. Broughton, T. R. S. (1938), An Economic Survey of Ancient Rome, vol. IV, part IV, Baltimore. Christophilopoulos, A. P. (1946), ‘Ai metronymiai para tois archaiois Hellesin’, in Schesis goneon kai technon, Athens, pp. 130–39. Clerc, M. (1893), Les métèques athéniens, Paris. Day, J. (1942), An Economic History of Athens under Roman Domination, New York. Dittenberger, W. (1863), De ephebis Atticis, Göttingen. Dumont, A. (1875–76), Essai sur l’éphébie attique, reprinted in Osnabrück, 1968. Errington, R. M. (1989), ‘The peace treaty between Miletus and Magnesia (I. Milet 148)’, Chiron 19, pp. 279–88.

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Follet, S. (1988), ‘Éphèbes étrangers à Athènes: Romains, Milésiens, Chypriotes etc.’, CCEC 9, pp. 19–32. Fragiadakis, C. (1988), Die attischen Sklavennamen von der spätarchaischen Epoche bis in die römische Kaiserzeit. Eine historische und soziologische Untersuchung, Mannheim. Fraser, P. M. (1995), ‘Citizens, Demesmen and Metics in Athens and Elsewhere’, in Sources for the Ancient Greek City-State (Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre vol. 2), ed. M. H. Hansen, Copenhagen, pp. 64–90. Garland, R. (1987), The Piraeus, London. Gauthier P. (1972), SYMBOLA. Les étrangers et la justice dans les cités grecques, Nancy. Gauthier, P. (1976), Un commentaire historique des Poroi de Xénophon, Paris. Gawantka, W. (1975), Isopolitie: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der zwischenstaatlichen Beziehungen in der griechischen Antike, Munich. Graindor, P. (1914), ‘Inscriptions attiques d’époque impériale’, BCH 38, pp. 351–443. Graindor, P. (1931), Athènes de Tibère à Trajan, Cairo. Günther, W. (1992), ‘Athenisches Bürgerrecht für Theoren aus Milet’, EpigAnat 19, pp. 135–43. Günther, W. (1998), ‘Milet und Athen im zweiten Jahrhundert v. Chr.’, Chiron 28, pp. 21–34. Habicht, C. (1991), ‘Milesische Theoren in Athen’, Chiron 21, pp. 325–29. Habicht, C. (1997) Athens from Alexander to Antony, Cambridge, MA and London. Hall, J. M. (1997), Ethnic identity in Greek antiquity, Cambridge. Hansen, M. H. (1995), ‘Boiotian Poleis—a Test Case’, in Sources for the Ancient Greek City-State (Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre vol. 2), ed. M. H. Hansen, Copenhagen, pp. 13–63. Hansen, M. H. (1996), ‘City-Ethnics as Evidence for Polis Identity’, in More Studies in the Ancient Greek Polis (Historia Einzelschrift 108), ed. M. H. Hansen and K. Raaflaub, Stuttgart, pp. 169–96. Henry, M. M. (1995), Prisoner of History. Aspasia of Miletus and her biographical tradition, Oxford. Isager, S. and M. H. Hansen (1975), Aspects of Athenian Society in the Fourth Century BC, Odense.

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Körte, A. (1941), ‘Review of J. Kirchner, IG II. III. Ed. Minor, pars tertia, fasc. posterior’, Gnomon 17, pp. 509–20. MacDowell, D. M. (1978), The Law in Classical Athens, London. McCabe, D. and M. A. Plunkett (1984), Miletos Inscriptions. Texts and List, Princeton. Reinmuth, O. W. (1929), The Foreigners in the Athenian Ephebeia, Lincoln, NB. Reinmuth, O. W. (1972), ‘I.G. II2, 1006 and 1301’, Hesperia 41, pp. 185–91. Robert, L. (1977), ‘Un Milésien à Athènes’, AEpigr 1977 [1979], pp. 217–18. Ross, L. (1846), Die Demen von Attika und ihre Vertheilung unter die Phylen, Halle. Röhlig, J. (1933), Der Handel von Milet, Hamburg. Tarn, W. W. and G. T. Griffith (1952), Hellenistic Civilisation, 3rd edn, London. Urdahl, L. B. (1959), Foreigners in Attica: A Study of the Grave Monuments, Chicago. Vatin, C. (1970), Recherches sur le mariage et la condition de la femme mariée à l’époque hellénistique, Paris. Vestergaard, T. et al. (1985) [1992], ‘A Typology of the Women Recorded on Gravestones from Attica’, AJAH 10, pp. 178–90. Whitehead, D. (1977), The Ideology of the Athenian Metic, Cambridge. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, U. (1914), ‘Review of Milet III’, Göttingische gelehrte Anzeigen 176, pp. 65–109. Zimmern, A. (1961), The Greek Commonwealth. Politics and Economics in Fifth-Century Athens, 5th edn, Oxford.

NOTE TO CHAPTER FOUR

The Archaeology of Miletus Alan Greaves

M

iletus’s fine harbours were noted in antiquity.1 Although there are no archaeological remains of harbour installations or shipsheds,2 recent geophysical and geological research has shown that they were of a suitable size, shape and depth for use by ancient vessels.3 The Lion Harbour would have been a closed (Kleistos) harbour and the nearby island of Lade sheltered the western harbours, including the large Theatre Harbour, from storms from the open sea to the west. In the Hellenistic and Roman period grand market halls were constructed near these harbours and they must have played a vital part in the economic life of the city.4 The silting-up of Miletus’s harbours as a result of the alluvial action of the Maeander river must have contributed to the city’s decline as a commercial centre. But the decline was a gradual process. When its effects really began to be felt at Miletus cannot be said with certainty. Miletus was located at the mouth of the Büyük Menderes Graben, the ancient Maeander Valley/Gulf of Latmos. This rift valley runs northwest into the Anatolian interior, created in a neotectonic event by the collapse of the Aegean Sea.5 The Büyük Menderes

1 2 3 4

Strabo 14.1.6. de Souza (1998). Although see Tuttahs (1998), p. 168, fig. 116. Brückner (1995, 1998); Wille (1995); Stümpel et al. (1995, 1997, 1999). Kleiner (1968), pp. 48–67.

Figure 4.1: The progradation of the Büyük Menderes Graben (after Aksu et al., 1987b).

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The Archaeology of Miletus

113

Graben and similar rift valleys in Western Anatolia, such as the Cayster/Küçük Menderes Valley, had steep sides and flat bottoms, innundated by the sea and divided by ridges of high land. Over time the bottom of the graben has been filled with sediment carried down by the Büyük Menderes, which has a drainage basin covering 23,889 km2 and discharges 8.5 million tonnes of sediment per year in the wet season between November and March.6 The mouth of the river Maeander has moved progressively southwards and eastwards towards the Aegean due to this large amount of silt being carried down and dumped at its meeting with the sea. Between 500 BC and AD 500 the delta coastline of the Maeander prograded rapidly within the sheltered Büyük Menderes Graben, advancing by between 10 and 17 kilometres in this single millennium (see Figure 4.1). In c. AD 700 a series of barrier beaches formed across the mouth of the Maeander graben and its progradation stopped, leaving Miletus seven kilometres from the sea. It is hard to say precisely when, how, and to what extent this alluviation started to affect Miletus’s ability to function as a port. Geological cores taken in the Lion Harbour discovered late antique amphora and pottery sherds at a depth of three metres. The process of sedimentation must have been quite advanced by this period.7 It has been suggested that attempts were made to canalize a way from Miletus to the sea; the recent discovery of Roman ships, probably dredgers, at Marseilles shows that this was technically possible. There is also written evidence to show that Miletus, then called Palatia, participated in maritime trade with the Genoese until the mid-fourteenth century AD.8 Whenever the silting-up of the harbours began, the effect was gradual and steps were probably taken to try and ensure access to the sea. It is difficult to see how the migration of people from Miletus to Athens in the Late Hellenistic and Roman period can be attributed solely to the loss of harbours. 5 6 7 8

Brinkmann (1971), 189. Aksu et al. (1987a, 1987b). Brückner (1995), p. 330 Belli (1991), p. 4.

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As the largest and westernmost settlement on the Gulf of Latmos, Miletus would have been last of the towns on the gulf to be affected by the Maeander’s alluvial action. Lesser towns including Myus, Priene, Nauloxos, Assessos, Ioniapolis and Heracleia would have suffered earlier. At Myus the Maeander blocked the entrance to the town’s sea inlet with mud and created a freshwater lagoon in which swarms of mosquitoes bred (Pausanias 7.2.11). The town had to be abandoned and Myus synoikized with Miletus in the first century BC.9 The same thing may have happened at the other towns on the Gulf of Latmos, many of which were historically dependencies or allies of Miletus. Influxes such as this would have increased Miletus’s urban population and may have caused sufficient pressure to stimulate migration from Miletus to Athens, before the city itself was directly affected by the alluviation. Other events may also have increased population pressure within the city. Miletus synoikized with the inland settlement of Pidasa in the second century BC.10 Survey work at the site of Pidasa, modern Cert Osman Kale, has shown that it had a favourable mountain location and an estimated population of about 2,000.11 Also in the late first century or early second century BC, the enclosed urban area of Miletus was reduced by the construction of a defensive cross-wall,12 perhaps putting even further pressure on the urban population to become mobile.

9 10 11 12

Strabo 14.1.10; Demand (1990), pp. 141–42, 165–66, 171–73. Milet I.3, pp. 350–57, no. 149. Cook (1961), pp. 91–96; Radt (1973–74). McNicoll (1997), pp. 167–69.

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Bibliography Aksu, A. E., D. J. W. Piper and T. Konuk (1987a), ‘Late Quaternary Tectonic and Sedimentary History of Out Izmir and Candarli Bays, Western Turkey’, Marine Geology 76, pp. 89–104. Aksu, A. E., D. J. W. Piper and T. Konuk (1987b), ‘Quaternary Growth Patterns of Büyük Menderes and Küçük Menderes Deltas, Western Turkey’, Sedimentary Geology 52, pp. 227–50. Belli, O. (1991), ‘The Problem of Tin Deposits in Anatolia and its need for Tin, according to the Written Records’, in Anatolian Iron Ages (British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara Monograph 13), ed. A. Çilingiroglu and D. H. French, Oxford, pp. 1–9. Brinkmann, R. (1971), ‘The Geology of Western Anatolia’, in Geology and History of Turkey, ed. A. S. Campbell, Castelfranco Veneto, pp. 171–90. Brückner, H. (1995), ‘Geomorphologie und Paläo-environment der Milesia’, AA 1995, pp. 329–33. Brückner, H. (1998), ‘Coastal Research and Geoarchaeology in the Mediterranean Region’, in German Geographical Coastal Research: The Last Decade, ed. D. H. Kelletat, Tübingen, pp. 235–57. Cook, R. M. (1961), ‘Some Sites of the Milesian Territory’, BSA 56, pp. 90–101. Demand, N. H. (1990), Urban Relocation in Archaic and Classical Greece: Flight and Consolidation, Bristol. Kleiner, G. (1968), Die Ruinen von Milet, Berlin. McNicoll, A. W. (1997), Hellenistic Fortifications from the Ægean to the Euphrates, Oxford. Milet I.3 = Kawerau G. and A. Rehm, Das Delpinion in Milet, Berlin, 1914. Radt, W. (1973–74), ‘Pidasa bei Milet’, IstMitt, pp. 23–24, 169–74. de Souza, P. (1998), ‘Towards Thalassocracy? Archaic Naval Developments’, in Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence, ed. N. Fisher and H. van Wees, London, pp. 271–93. Stümpel, H., F. Demirel, S. Lorra and S. Wende (1995), ‘Geophysikalische Messungen im umfeld von Milet 1993’, AA 1993, pp. 245–53.

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Stümpel, H., C. Bruhn, F. Demirel, M. Gräber, M. Panitzki and W. Rabbel (1997), ‘Stand der Geophysikalischen Messungen im umfeld von Milet’, AA 1997, pp. 124–34. Stümpel, H., F. Demirel, W. Rabbel, I. Trinks and S. Wölz (1999), ‘Geophysikal Prospektion im umfeld von Milet’, AA 1999, pp. 89–94. Tuttahs, G. (1998), Milet und das Wasser, ein Beispeil für die Wasserwirtschaft einer antiken Stadt, Essen. Wille, M. (1995), ‘Pollenanalysen aus dem Lowenhafen von Milet’, AA 1995, pp. 330–33.

CHAPTER FIVE

Commemoration of Infants on Roman Funerary Inscriptions Margaret King Introduction

A

ccording to several historians of the Early Modern European family, prior to the advances initiated by industrialization in the eighteenth century and the concomitant decline in mortality, the death of a child in infancy passed by unlamented.1 The general thesis is that as a result of the high rate of infant mortality in preindustrial societies, parents maintained an emotional distance from their young children in order to protect themselves from the trauma of repeated loss. Within the last decade the study of the Roman family has become a major issue of classical scholarship. At the forefront of this movement are historians such as Manson, Neraudau, Bradley, 1

See Ariès (1973), p. 39; Shorter (1976), pp. 199–203; Stone (1977), pp. 78, 81, 651–52). In subsequent studies of the Early Modern family this relationship between demographic patterns and human pyschology is criticized most convincingly by MacFarlane (1981, pp. 250–55) and Pollock (1983, pp. 127–40). More recently, Johanssen (1987, p. 355) has argued in favour of a midway approach between these two positions: in premodern societies, a variety of responses to infant death will have existed.

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Rawson, Dixon and Wiedemann.2 All of these scholars have been influenced, to varying degrees, by the trends set in studies of the family and of childhood in preindustrial Europe. Bradley in particular focuses upon the idea of a connection between infant mortality and degree of parental attachment. In his view Roman parents avoided physical and emotional involvement with their infant child as a means of pyschological protection against the possiblity of their child dying in infancy;3 and while he does acknowledge that several expressions of grief at the death of an infant child are to be found in the literary sources, he suggests that such reactions are likely to have been ‘aberrant’, rather than the norm.4 Other social historians highlight the comparatively insignificant number of tombstones dedicated to infants as proof of the generic failure of the Romans to mourn children who died in infancy.5

Tombstones as evidence in Ancient Rome

T

he influence of demographic trends on emotion, and the degree to which this is demonstrated by funerary inscriptions, is outside the scope of discussion here; the principal aim is, rather, to consider the use of epitaphs as evidence for Roman reactions to the death of an infant child.6 The basic framework is a study of approximately 39,000 inscriptions from the City of 2 3

4 5 6

Manson (1983); Néraudau (1984, 1987); Bradley (1986, 1991); Rawson (1986, 1991); Dixon (1988, 1992); Wiedemann (1989). Bradley (1986, pp. 216, 221; 1991, pp. 28ff, 56ff) believes that the widespread use of wet nurses and other child minders among Rome’s elite was a product of the frequency with which infants died in antiquity and of the consequent reluctance on the part of parents to become attached to small children. Bradley (1991), p. 29. Etienne (1976), p. 153; Garnsey and Saller (1987), p. 139; Dixon (1988), pp. 112–13; Garnsey (1991), p. 52; Shaw (1991), p. 69. Here the term ‘infant’ is used with reference to children aged 0–4 years; the first two age categories used by demographers in compiling mortality statistics for any given population (Jones (1990), pp. 22–23).

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Rome published in volume six of Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum. The sepulcrales sections of CIL VI, an ‘alphabetized collection of tombstone inscriptions’,7 contains the majority of the sample number; but funerary inscriptions are to be found in other sections of CIL VI—principally columbaria, but also officiales et artifices, milites, etc. Therefore, the estimation of Saller and Shaw that approximately three-quarters of all Latin inscriptions are tombstones has been used to surmise that in CIL VI as a whole there are approximately 29,250 epitaphs.8 This figure will form the sample number for this study.9 From the survey of CIL VI only two specific categories of epitaphs were recorded: those commemorating infants aged 0–4 years and those dedicated to children 10–14 years. For the latter age category, chosen in preference to 5–9-year-olds on the hypothesis that the findings would show a more significantly contrasting result, only details of age and sex were noted; this group is intended to function as the control in comparison of numbers of inscriptions dedicated according to the age and sex of the child. In general, fragmentary epitaphs were omitted; however, those which gave at least full age and some indication of sex, if no name, were included. It is usually assumed by scholars that babies aged 0–1 year are greatly under-represented in the epigraphic evidence. But the analysis of tombstones need not only be quantitative. Funerary inscriptions can be used to recover the emotions experienced by the dedicator at the death of the commemorated. Such an approach has provoked varying responses, mostly sceptical or negative, from social historians.10 One popular tack is to emphasize the problems entailed by this approach to tombstones,11 quote a 7

Taylor (1961), p. 113. The sepulcrales section in CIL VI forms parts 2, 3 and 4.1 (10424–29680), with supplements in parts 4.2 and 4.3 (34029–36602; 37857–39082a). 8 Saller and Shaw (1984), p. 124. 9 Flory (1984, p. 218) notes that the majority of funerary inscriptions in CIL VI are represented by nos. 3926–29680 and the supplements, 33062–39082a. 10 See Nielsen (1997), p. 199.

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few examples of epitaphs to show that some Roman parents were bitterly upset when their infant son or daughter died, but end by saying that in view of the highly speculative and controversial nature of this kind of research, no firm conclusions can be reached as to whether grief on tombstones is genuine or not. Other scholars are more emphatic in their criticism of attempts to discover the feelings of the bereaved from inscriptions. Shaw in particular doubts the sincerity of any sentiments expressed in epitaphs: ‘the erection of a permanent memorial to the deceased, a practice with nothing naturally or biologically necessary about it, is a distinctly artificial and cultural act’; to commemorate by a tombstone is ‘not an automatic response triggered by death, but a cultural act … even more artificial than the relationships and sentiments that it records’.12 Susini claims that ‘inscriptions help us to reconstruct, not the history of the individual as it actually was, but the individual as he wanted to appear vis-a-vis both contemporary and future society’.13 Bradley too is wary of accepting the expressions of grief on tombstones at face value: he sees tombstones as an act of duty, as well as a display of affection, conditioned by ‘very pronounced religious restraints’.14 According to Dixon, ‘sepulchral inscriptions represent the fulfilment of a duty and, by definition, the display of proper sentiment’.15 Golden seems alone in believing that ‘gravestones are valuable because the sentiments that they record are conventional’.16 Therefore, the general view seems to be that the commemoration of the deceased by a funerary monument is a product of the pressures and expectations at the familial and societal level to honour one’s relatives in death. Since the commemorator is aware that the monument will be permanent and public, the sentiments on 11 Hopkins (1983), p. 204; Dixon (1988), p. 114; Dixon (1992), Preface, pp. xii-xiii; p. 13. 12 Shaw (1987), pp. 34, 67. 13 Susini (1973), p. 61. 14 Bradley (1991), p. 30. 15 Dixon (1992), p. 13. 16 Golden (1990), p. xvi.

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it cannot be genuine; rather, they illustrate what was considered appropriate to say in such circumstances. More recently, Nielsen has suggested that the language of the epithets used for young children are ‘an expression of the broken expectations and hopes of parents to their now dead children’.17

Tombstones and status

T

he conventional aspect of Roman tombstones will be dealt with presently; but, as a preliminary, an outline will be given of the various biases in funerary epigraphy that impair its value as source material.18 There is a marked class bias: the great majority of the extant funerary inscriptions in every age group were erected by and for freedmen and slaves; and, rather surprisingly, the freeborn are greatly under-represented. Taylor calculated a ratio of approximately three freedmen to one freeborn in the epitaphs of CIL VI.19 From a sample of 3,181 tombstones, Nielsen found that 62 per cent of dedicatees with an indication of status were ex-slaves, 14 per cent slaves, and 24 per cent freeborn; of dedicators who mention their status, 67 per cent were freedmen, 23 per cent slaves, and 10 per cent freeborn.20 In the case of the discrepancy between classes in the number of infant commemorations in stone, there is no evidence to corroborate any notion that the loss of a child in infancy was a greater blow to freedmen and slaves than to their social superiors. For parents of all social groups, as the literary evidence reveals in connection with the upper classes,21 sorrow at the death of a child was just as much for the untimely demise of a dearly loved child as well as a frustration of hopes for future social and economic security. 17 Nielsen (1997), p. 193. 18 For a recent, and comprehensive, survey of the biases of funerary inscriptions, see Parkin (1992), pp. 5–18. 19 Taylor (1961), p. 118. 20 Nielsen (1997), p. 203. 21 Tacitus, Ann. 15.23; Seneca, Cons. 9.2; Statius, Silv., 5.5.79–87.

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According to Taylor, the freeborn of the lower classes preferred the anonymity of mass graves or unmarked jars, since, unlike the more successful freedmen, they had little in the way of public and professional achievements to boast of.22 However, the generally accepted explanation for the greater tendency of the lower classes to erect funerary inscriptions to their infant children is the desire of freedmen to advertise their newly-gained status as Roman citizens.23 A tombstone, being the most public form of advertisement available to such people, also enabled a freedman to proclaim the legitimacy of his family through the tria nomina of his children. Yet, according to the findings of Shaw,24 slaves were the largest single group of dedicators of infant tombstones at Rome; but they did not have advertisement of freed status as an obvious motivating factor. In some cases parents were concerned with familial ties as they were commemorating a child who had been separated from them through sale and brought up in a different household.25 However, imitation of the practice of their freed contemporaries seems to be the most credible solution. From her study of the order of names in servile epitaphs, Flory has shown that slaves were just as ‘status-conscious’ as freedmen.26 The names of freed wives normally preceded those of servile husbands, unless the husband had an important position (e.g. CIL VI 27274: Tertius is a slave in the imperial household): ‘The public nature of the record and the 22 Taylor (1961), p. 131. 23 See especially Taylor (1961, pp. 129–30) on inscriptions and Kleiner (1977, pp. 18–19) on group portraiture. Treggiari (1975, pp. 211–13) notes that freedmen generally commemorated only those children born to them after manumission. Nielsen (1997, pp. 203–04) disputes the traditional view that freedmen erected funerary monuments to emphasize their new status as citizens and the legitimacy of their family on the grounds that only 26 per cent of freedmen dedications are of relationships within the nuclear family, compared to 53 per cent for CIL VI as a whole. 24 The figures given by Shaw (1991, p. 69) are quoted below in connection with biases in the age structure. 25 Rawson (1966), p. 78. 26 Flory (1984), pp. 218–19.

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desire to appear important and successful and to have some mark of prestige, however small, to inscribe are the factors that influenced the text.’27 The influence of custom must also have contributed to the decision to erect a tombstone, as is suggested by the fact that the vast majority of inscriptions date to the mid-second century AD;28 thereafter, the habit of funerary commemoration by the freed and servile classes begins to decline in popularity. Yet, as will be shown, the likelihood of genuine sorrow should not be ruled out as one of the main motives for servile parents commemorating their infants.

Age distribution

O

ne of the most serious biases is the implausibility of the age structures. In the city of Rome children under the age of 10 years were far more likely to receive a memorial at death than any other age group. The people of Rome honoured their children with a tombstone more than any other population in the whole Empire, with the exception of Ostia.29 However, in view of the fact that the annual infant mortality rate at Rome has been estimated at 200–300 per 1,000 live births, infant deaths are, as has been emphasized, still greatly under-recorded on funerary inscriptions.30 Examples of this under-representation can be found in most demographic studies. Harkness, one of the first scholars to deal with this problem, suggested that the figure of 0.8 per cent of epitaphs dedicated to infants under one year should be substituted for 20 per cent, as model life tables imply that this is an acceptable figure for the infant 27 28 29 30

Flory (1984), p. 223. MacMullen (1982), p. 245; Meyer (1990), p. 74. Saller and Shaw (1984), p. 138; Shaw (1987), p. 34; Shaw (1991), p. 74. See notes 5 and 11. For various estimations of the infant mortality rate in Rome, see Hopkins (1966), p. 263; Hopkins (1983), p. 72; Frier (1982), p. 247; Golden (1988), p. 155; Golden (1990), p. 83; Garnsey and Saller (1987), p. 138; Garnsey (1991), pp. 51–52; Parkin (1992), pp. 93–94.

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Figure 5.1: Inscriptions by age category: infants by age. Age

Number of Inscriptions

Percentage of sample

Percentage of total

<1 1–2 2–3 3–4 >4

128 322 307 327 273

09.4 23.7 22.6 24.1 20.1

0.4 1.1 1.1 1.1 0.9

Total

sample: 1,357

1,3570

4.6

total: 29,250

Figure 5.2: Inscriptions by age category: years 10–14. Age

Number of Inscriptions

Percentage of sample

Percentage of total

10–11 11–12 12–13 13–14 >14

169 133 151 155 095

24.0 18.9 21.5 22.1 13.5

0.6 0.5 0.5 0.5 0.3

Total

703

sample: 703

2.4

total: 29,250

mortality rate of a preindustrial population.31 From a sample of 16,106 tombstones from Rome and Italy with ages at death, Hopkins calculated that only 1.3 per cent were for infants dying under one year; the 1–4 years age group represented 13 per cent of all deaths commemorated.32 Shaw, in his analysis of tombstone dedications in the Western Empire, has shown that in the first three centuries AD among slaves and freedmen at Rome only 1.6 per cent and 0.6 per cent respectively of all inscriptions commemorated 0–12month-olds.33 The 13–24 month age group was represented by 5.2

31 Harkness (1896), p. 54. 32 Hopkins (1983), p. 225. 33 Shaw (1991), p. 69, Table 4.1.

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per cent and 1.8 per cent of all commemorations among slaves and freedmen respectively. My own survey of the 29,250 funerary inscriptions in CIL VI revealed that 1,357 were dedicated to infants 0–4 years, that is 4.6 per cent, and 703 to 10–14-year-olds (2.4 per cent) (see Figures 5.1 and 5.2). In the infant age category, among 0–1-year-olds, the age group which should have had the highest level of commemorations in proportion to the hypothetical rate of mortality, the level of under-recording is most marked: only 128 inscriptions overall, that is just 9.4 per cent of infant epitaphs. The other infant age groups each account for some 20-odd per cent. Such figures are hardly a reflection of the demographic reality, especially in view of both the fact that these inscriptions span some three centuries (first to third centuries AD) and the frequency with which it has been estimated that infants died in antiquity. Even in our own society where the infant mortality rate is steadily decreasing, it is still the case that the majority of infant deaths occur within the first week and month of life, and most of these within the first 48 hours.34 In ancient Rome, however, there must have been an immense number of deaths in this period;35 yet possibly only one inscription in the whole of CIL VI is dedicated to a neonate (i.e. under 28 days).36 Tombstones are, therefore, demographically valueless as evidence for 34 Myles (1965), p. 679; Parkin (1992), p. 94; p. 180 n. 12: ‘Neonatal mortality (i.e. deaths within the first month of life) accounted for some 57.5 per cent of infant deaths in England and Wales in 1985, and 80.8 per cent of these deaths occurred within the first week of life’. According to the 1991 Annual Report of the Registrar General Scotland, in that year in Scotland there were 292 neonate deaths; 181 infant deaths (0–1 year); 113 early childhood deaths (1–4 years). 35 Aristotle, Hist. Anim. 7.588a.8, says that most babies die within the first week. According to Plutarch, Quaest. Rom. 102.288c, until the seventh day, when the umbilical cord comes off, ‘a child is more like a plant than an animal’. 36 CIL VI 15122. It is by no means certain that the number of days in this inscription actually refers to the lifespan of the deceased, since no indication of the customary vixit is given; the youngest children commemorated by a funerary inscription, whose ages at death are not in doubt, are a 40-day-old boy (CIL VI 23642) and a 45-day-old girl (CIL VI 1334).

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mortality rates. The demographic patterns produced by calculations from epigraphic data are ‘improbable … unlike those found in any human population’.37 The demographic pattern that emerges from funerary inscriptions should be regarded as a product of Roman social customs at death. In the case of infants, society did not expect parents to commemorate children who died so young by a permanent, engraved marker; although from the Imperial period many from the freed and servile classes did not conform to the practices of funerary commemoration traditionally accepted by Roman society. The majority of infants who received some form of dedication would have been commemorated by memorials made of less costly, and more perishable materials such as wood or stucco;38 or by anonymous markers, such as a plain urn sunk into the ground.39 However, large numbers of infants are likely to have been buried, communally or individually, in unmarked graves.

Gender bias in tombstones

A

nother defect of the epigraphic evidence is the marked bias in the number of males commemorated by a tombstone in comparison to the number of females. The skewed sex ratio in Roman funerary inscriptions is well illustrated in demographic studies, particularly those of Hopkins. From a study of 20,758 epitaphs with age at death, Hopkins calculates a ratio of 135 males to 100 females,40 and elsewhere describes this discrepancy 37 Hopkins (1987), p. 117. For the unrealistic mortality figures produced by the age pattern on tombstones, see also Burn (1953), p. 14; Hopkins (1966), pp. 246–47; Brunt (1971), p. 132; Engels (1980), p. 113; MacMullen (1982), pp. 239–40; Saller and Shaw (1984), p. 130; Shaw (1987), pp. 33–41; Nielsen (1987), p. 159; Wiedemann (1989), p. 114; Shaw (1991), pp. 67–69; Morris (1992), pp. 157–66; Parkin (1992), pp. 7 and 19. 38 Hopkins (1966), p. 247. 39 The garden in the Museo Nazionale, Rome, has several rows of blank, roundtopped headstones; these are crudely carved and very weather-worn. Such markers of inferior stone were cheaper than costly marble memorials.

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Figure 5.3: Inscriptions by age and sex: infants. Male Number Percent

Age <1 1–2 2–3 3–4 >4

086 191 210 198 171

Total

856

10.1 22.3 24.5 23.1 20.1

Female Number Percent 042 131 097 129 102

08.4 26.1 19.4 25.7 20.4

501

Sex Ratio 204.0 146.0 216.5 153.5 167.5 171.2

sample: 1,357 Figure 5.4: Inscriptions by age and sex: years 10–14. Male Number Percent

Age 10–11 11–12 12–13 13–14 >14

095 077 086 089 050

Total

397

23.9 19.4 21.7 22.4 12.6

Female Number Percent 074 056 065 066 045 306

24.2 18.3 21.2 21.6 14.7

Sex Ratio 128.8 137.7 132.3 134.8 111.1 132.0

sample: 703

in commemoration of gender as ‘the most serious bias’ in funerary epigraphy.41 The severity of this bias varies across age categories. Hopkins calculates a sex ratio of 159:100 in the 0–4 years age group; this ratio decreases to 144:100 in the 5–14 years age category.42 In another study, Hopkins uses a sample of 16,106 tombstones to illustrate the ‘unrealistically high’ ratios of 179:100 (males:females) among infants who died less than one year and of 162:100 in the 1–4 years age group.43 40 41 42 43

Hopkins (1966), p. 261 Hopkins (1987), p. 114. Hopkins (1966), p. 261. Hopkins (1983), p. 225. For other figures illustrating the male to female bias in funerary inscriptions, see also Brunt (1977), p. 133 and Parkin (1992),

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My own study of CIL VI produced findings comparable to those recorded by Hopkins. In the 0–4 years age group the overall sex ratio is 171 males to 100 females, and the greatest disparity is among 0–1-year-olds, where the sex ratio is an incredible 204 (Figure 5.3). As expected, the sex ratio among 10–14-year-olds, though far from being demographically realistic, is not as biased: the overall figure is 132; among 14-year-olds there is a near balance in the sexes: 111 males to 100 females (Figure 5.4). Various explanations have been offered for this skewed ratio; often in the form of studies of particular households or social groups. Treggiari suggests that the greater number of boys on the staff of the Volusii Saturnini and of the Statilii may be partly a reflection of different commemorative customs, and the higher birth rate and earlier death rate for boys; or possibly owners may have rid themselves of unwanted females by exposing them at birth.44 Rawson discovered a similar disparity among inscriptions dedicated to alumni (‘foster-children’) and vernae (home-born slaves) in CIL VI.45 Among alumni the male biased sex ratio illustrates, according to Rawson, that ‘very young girls who … had been deprived of natural parents were less likely to find a foster-parent to take care of them’. As for vernae, the greater number of males is attributed to the practice of very young boys being recalled from the countryside, where they were being reared, to the city at an earlier age than girls. Dixon discusses the tendency of parents to commemorate sons more than daughters, but admits that ‘it is difficult to know what to infer’ from this bias and concludes that only ‘plausible but improvable explanations can be advanced’.46 Again, such ratios are unlikely to be a reflection of the demographic reality. While at Rome males might have outnumbered females in p. 15. A clear and concise explanation of sex ratio is given by Rawson (1986), p. 199 n. 32: ‘The sex ratio expresses the number of males compared to 100 females. Thus a sex ratio of 100 would indicate exactly equal numbers of males and females’. 44 Treggiari (1975), p. 400. 45 Rawson (1986), p. 180. 46 Dixon (1988), pp. 213–14.

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certain periods,47 the skewed sex ratio on tombstones is a product of the traditions of funerary commemoration and not a reflection of larger numbers of males in the population, nor of greater male mortality.48 In a culture such as ancient Rome where male babies were valued more highly than females and adult males occupied the predominant position in society, it is not at all surprising to find that males are more commonly honoured by tombstones than females.49

Conventions in funerary commemoration

E

ach of these three biases (class, age and sex) in the epigraphic evidence can be explained with reference to socially recommended practices of funerary commemoration. Contrary to the popular view, these biases should not be seen as illustrative of the low value that the Romans placed on infant life and of the failure of the great majority of Romans in the first three centuries AD to grieve at the death of an infant child. Yet, if the epigraphic pattern in CIL VI is indeed a reflection of custom rather than a generic indifference among the Romans to the death of children in infancy, then a number of difficulties arise in attempting to discover the emotions felt by the commemorator at the loss of such young children. The influence of tradition implies that the sentiments recorded in stone cannot be genuine. In addition to the three biases outlined above, the conventions of funerary epigraphy would seem to invalidate further any attempt to argue that the epitaphs are a geniune expression of the emotions 47 Burn (1953), p. 35; Lo Cascio (1994), p. 35. According to Dio Cassius 54.16.2, in 18 BC among the nobility there were more males than females. Parkin (1992, pp. 103ff) offers a number of theories as to why mortality may have been greater among females than males in antiquity. 48 Even today it is still the case that the death rate is consistently higher at all ages among males than females, see Lo Cascio (1994), p. 35. 49 Wiedemann (1989), pp. 18–19.

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experienced by the bereaved. In Roman funerary inscriptions the standard arrangement is opening invocation to the Di Manes, then name and age of the deceased, and identity of the commemorator. Many tombstones do not conform to this pattern, especially verse epitaphs, and some prose inscriptions record no more than the name and age of the deceased; but, in general, this is the usual form. Choice of monument and biographical details were undoubtedly the responsibility of the bereaved, but the structure of the text would often have been the stonemason’s:50 the form of Dis Manibus,51 or whether this appeal was used at all; the grammatical case of the dedicatee’s name (nominative, genitive, or dative); the use of abbreviations;52 the inclusion of epithets and end phrases, etc. Style of lettering and text would depend also upon the size and cost of the monument53 and current trends in funerary epigraphy. The recurrence of epithets (dulcissimus/a; carissimus/a) and set phrases (sit terra tibi levis, ‘may the earth be gentle for you’; hic situs est, ‘here lies’)54 implies the existence of a stock of conventions at least, if 50 For the procedure followed by the monumental mason in the carving of a tombstone, see Susini (1973), Chapters 3 and 4. 51 The inscriptions dedicated to 0–4-year-olds in CIL VI contain 21 variations of Dis Manibus, the most common being the simple abbreviation D. M. 52 The age of the deceased, one of the most widely used abbreviations, is repeatedly shortened to V (vixit = lived) A (annis = years) M (mensibus = months) D (diebus = days). Other common abbreviations include F for filius/filia (son or daughter) or fecit/fecerunt (s/he or they set up). 53 Scholars disagree as to whether tombstones were expensive or not. Hopkins (1966, p. 247) estimates that even the cheapest inscribed tombstones ‘may have cost roughly the equivalent of three months wages of unskilled labour’. Duncan-Jones (1982, p. 127) calculates a median average of HS 10,000 for expenditure on tombs among the Italian population up to first century AD, in comparison to a median average of HS 1,380 in Africa. However, Saller and Shaw (1984, p. 128) argue that ‘memorial stones were within the means of modest men’; even at Rome the cost, including funeral, could have been ‘no more than a couple of hundred sesterces’. Although, Shaw (1987, p. 40) later remarks that the size and cost of tombstones implies that those who erected them were ‘specifically the slaves and freedmen of the wealthy and powerful of the city of Rome’. See above, Chapter 1. 54 Other popular end phrases include sibi et suis libertis libertabusque posterisque

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not of manuals.55 From these the customer could select something appropriate, perhaps with the assistance of the stonemason; or may have simply instructed the stonemason to inscribe a suitable phrase of his own chosing. Therefore, there is a strong possibility that the stonecutter might have had more to do with the sentiments recorded on tombstones than the bereaved themselves. Considerations of finance and epigraphic trends would seem to undermine further any theories that the bereaved are giving free expression to genuine feelings of sorrow in epitaphs. In our own society, in order to convey feelings, not only those of grief, it is the traditional practice to turn to the words of others. Cards can be bought not only to communicate one’s sorrow at a bereavement, but also to express congratulations, love, gratitude, happiness, etc. Each of these emotions has its own long-established, and limited, stock of vocabulary, themes and ideas; this forms the reserve for composers of verses in cards. The preprepared expression of sentiments is the more common, appropriate and convenient way of communicating one’s feelings to others, in view of the difficulty of composing something original that does not appear ‘over-the-top’ and cause embarrassment to the recipient.

The language of epitaphs

I

nterpretation of the sentiments on tombstones is further complicated by the linguistic conventions of funerary epigraphy. In addition to the aforementioned standard epithets and idioms, the choice of motifs is confined largely to a limited stock of themes based eorum (to him, and his freedmen and his freedwomen and their descendants); hoc monumentum heredi non sequitur (H. M. H. N. S. = this memorial does not pass on to an heir); the measurements of the monument: in agro ped iii in fro p i (in depth three feet, in width one foot; CIL VI 21033: a marble tablet); in fronte p vii in agro p iiii (CIL VI 19159: a large marble altar). 55 Hopkins (1983), p. 204. See Nielsen (1997), pp. 189–94 for dulcissimus/a and carissimus/a.

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on phrases and ideas familiar from poetry. This use of stereotypical language is manifest most clearly in verse epitaphs, where the modes of expression, though verbose and florid, are similar in all cases. Recurrent images include the deceased child entreating his/her parents not to grieve; the cruelty of Fate; the lament of untimely death; appeals to passersby; the precocity of the child. Belief in an afterlife as exemplified by the traditions of the Homeric Underworld does not seem to have been widespread among the Romans, even at the popular level;56 but epitaphs, in particular verse inscriptions, are replete with well-known images: Elysium, Tartarus, Acheron, Styx, Orcus, Dis, Pluto, Persephone. Therefore, there is much in support of the view of Shaw that funerary commemoration is ‘a distinctly artificial and cultural act’.57 The façade of conventionality on tombstones seems impenetrable and any attempt to discover whether genuine grief lies beneath seems misguided. How can these stock themes and clichéd phrases be expressions of real sorrow, when their very presence would suggest the contrary? Yet, as Hopkins, and Lattimore before him, correctly points out, the expression of emotions, whether verbally or in written form, always follows a standard, formulaic pattern: ‘the very act of transforming feelings into words automatically channels them along conventional lines. Language is a set of conventions …’58 From a linguistic perspective, the phonological and syntactical rules of any language must be adhered to in order to produce meaningful utterances. In addition, the ‘linguistic competence’ of an individual is affected by a number of non-linguistic considerations, including ‘on the one hand, social conventions, beliefs about the world, the speaker’s emotional attitudes towards what he is saying, his assumption about his interlocutor’s attitudes, etc. and, on the other hand, the operation of the psychological and physiological mechanisms involved in the production of utterances’.59 Of these 56 According to Toynbee (1971, p. 37), the whole idea of Hades appears to have been nothing more than a literary topos. 57 Shaw (1987), p. 34. 58 Quotation from Hopkins (1983), p. 220; see also Lattimore (1962), p. 19.

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factors, it is the influence of ‘social conventions’ on language that is most important for the argument here: ‘since man is a social animal and the structure of language is determined and maintained by its use in society, self-expression in general and self-expression by means of language in particular are very largely controlled by socially imposed and socially recognized norms of behaviour and categorization.’60 Therefore, the individual might have feelings peculiar to himself; but because this is not true also of language, he is limited in the expression of these feelings by various linguistic and non-linguistic constraints. As a result of these determinants, the verbal and written form of emotions must inevitably consist of what will be termed as ‘commonplaces’. According to our own (and Roman)61 social norms, sorrow is perceived essentially as a negative feeling; consequently, the idioms used in the expression of such a distressing, and occasionally violent, emotion are even more limited and standardized than those of more acceptable feelings, such as love, gratitude or joy. However, since both sincerity and affectation of feelings are conveyed by the same standard modes of expression, it is difficult, if not impossible, to determine whether the bereaved is describing exactly how he feels on the tombstone or whether, from a sense of obligation to adhere to society’s practices, he is simply describing what he is expected to feel. Therefore, traditions of funerary epigraphy pose a dilemma for the researcher: does the conventional format of tombstones mean that the sentiments recorded are artificial, because the bereaved has copied the ideas of others and is acting in accordance with custom? Or can individuals still be sincere in their expression of emotion even though the form is clichéd and dictated by social practice? In the case of funerary epigraphy in general both solutions are 59 Lyons (1981), p. 223. 60 Lyons (1981), p. 144. 61 According to the ideals of the Roman elite, emotional outpourings were to be avoided. For criticism of displays of grief, see Cicero, Tusc. 3.28.70–71; Seneca, Ep. 99.2; Con. 6.5; Pliny, Ep. 4.2; 4.7; Plutarch, Cons. ad Apoll. 102 (3). Statius, Silv. 2.6.1–8, condemns those moralists who prescribe limits to grief.

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equally possible. As far as concerns Roman tombstones, the stronger case would seem to belong to the former option: the sentiments are not genuine. Roman society is so far removed, in a spatial, temporal and cultural sense, from our own. Moreover, as a result of the frequency of mortality in ancient Rome, reactions to death might not have had the same meaning as in the late twentieth century West, where the incidence of death is so much lower. Yet, in spite of these important cautions, it is possible to substantiate the theory that the veneer of conventionality on Roman tombstones does conceal genuine sorrow at the loss of a child in infancy. It is true that a gravestone represents both ‘a cultural act’62 and ‘the fulfilment of a duty’;63 but this is less true of Roman society as a whole than our own, where there is a much greater emphasis on the necessity of some permanent form of commemoration at death. But a tombstone can also have more personal implications for the individual. Memorial monuments provide a place where the bereaved can visit and remember the loved ones whom they have lost; they also serve as a focus for grief, particularly in the early stages of bereavement when distress is often acute,64 and give a legitimate reason for the open display of emotion, which tends to be discouraged, particularly in the case of infants, by our own society and that of ancient Rome. The influence of custom cannot be denied as a motivating factor in the erection of a tombstone. Among the Romans, there is a good case for such commemorations being nothing more than a passing fad: the epitaphs in CIL VI belong to the first three centuries AD; the bulk of these date to the middle of the second century. In contrast, very few funerary inscriptions on stone memorials survive from the Republican era. This discrepancy cannot justifiably be taken to indicate the failure of Romans in this period to grieve for 62 Shaw (1987), p. 34 63 Dixon (1992), p. 13. 64 For modern theories on the development of the grief reaction according to a set behavioural pattern, see Averill (1988); Bowlby (1980); Gorer (1965); Raphael (1984); Sandars (1989).

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their deceased relatives; custom/fashion for inscribed gravemarkers in stone is the most credible explanation. Yet, the influence of contemporary practices is by no means incompatible with the role of grief and natural affection as motivating factors. Both custom and genuine sorrow are determinants of the decision to erect a tombstone, and the extent to which one predominates over the other will depend upon the individual. To complement the suggestions offered above, a survey was made of gravestones in four British cemeteries.65 In all four graveyards taken as a whole, an approach which obviously makes no allowance for any geographical, temporal or urban–rural variations, it was clear from the wording of the tombstones that the use of standard forms and formulaic phrases is even more extensive than in the Roman epitaphs of CIL VI. Although, in mitigation, the Roman inscriptions do span a greater temporal and cultural range than their modern counterparts; nevertheless, the standardization of British tombstones is striking. The opening invocation is almost always ‘In loving memory of …’; as for epithets, there is virtually no deviation from ‘dear’ and ‘beloved’ and their variants; and end phrases are either biblical quotations or of the ‘sadly missed’ type. In addition, cemeteries impose severe restrictions on the style of memorial. For example, the price list issued by H. Peasgood & Son, a funeral director in Saffron Walden, NW Essex, specifies that ‘while polished granite is seldom allowed in churchyards, dark or light grey granite with a fine honed finish is usually allowed’. Funeral directors and monumental masons also contribute to the preservation of uniformity. On request the recently bereaved are issued with a sheet of guidelines to enable them to compose an epitaph; original sentiments are discouraged or actually prohibited. The whole 65 The four cemetries were in Saffron Walden (pop. 15,000), NW Essex, late eighteenth century to present day; Lanark (pop. 10,000), South Clydesdale, early nineteenth century to present day; and two in the West End of Edinburgh (pop. c. 450,000): Dean Park, predominately eighteenth to early twentieth century; Comely Bank, a council maintained cemetery, where the greater proportion of gravestones belong to the latter part of the twentieth century.

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procedure of erecting a gravestone involves minimal effort on the part of the commemorator; but genuine grief is not lacking. Most individuals who have just experienced the loss of a close relative are not psychologically able to deal with such arrangements unaided. Surprisingly, in modern cemeteries infants are rarely commemorated on their own; but most often with a parent who has died at a later date. Infant epitaphs tend to be brief in biographical details: frequently only the child’s first name is given, and age is usually replaced by the more general ‘died in infancy’. These forms are dictated by the funeral director or monumental mason and by the conventions of what is acceptable in a particular cemetery. Yet, it would be unthinkable to question the sincerity of the parents’ grief for the child whom they have lost. Similarly, the traditional format of Roman dedications to infants and the fact that the bereaved is acting in accordance with cultural traditions should not be taken to mean that all sentiments on tombstones are insincere. Scholars, such as Shaw, who claim that the sentiments on Roman funerary inscriptions are ‘artificial’, are unlikely to make the same criticisms about modern epitaphs.66 Therefore, it is unreasonable to argue that comparable conventions in Roman funerary epigraphy must inevitably preclude the sincerity of emotion.

Loss and the death of infants

I

n support of this theory, a number of points will made, based upon the study of infant epitaphs in CIL VI. Objectors might claim that these points are merely a result of the influence of culture and the epigraphic tradition; but while the importance of custom and fashion will not be denied, the primary purpose is to demonstrate that the dedicators of these tombstones did experience genuine sorrow at the death of their child in infancy. The marked under-representation of infants in funerary inscriptions was noted in

66 Shaw (1987), p. 34; Shaw (1991), p. 67.

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connection with the biases in the age structures in the epigraphic evidence: there are only 1,357 infant epitaphs for the three centuries covered by CIL VI. The 0–4 years age category accounts for only 4.6 per cent of all commemorations, yet it has been estimated that in ancient Rome the annual infant mortality rate was 200–300 per 1000 live births, and approximately 50 per cent of those born alive would not have reached their fifth birthday.67 However, this insignificant number of epitaphs should not be taken to imply that the vast majority of Roman parents did not grieve for their children who died in infancy. In our own society, it is still the case that most stillborn and perinatal deaths seldom receive any form of commemoration.68 Frequently, the hospital will make all the necessary arrangements, and the baby will be commemorated along with many others by a general headstone or a plaque in a Memorial Garden in the local cemetery. Even for older children within the infant age group, a formal memorial in stone is unusual. One study of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, or ‘Cot Death’, revealed that although the majority of parents chose to have their child buried or cremated in an individual ceremony, only 6 per cent paid for a headstone or a memorial tablet.69 Parents entrust the resposibility for the burial of their child to experienced authorities not because of a lack of affection and genuine sorrow, but from the conviction that non-involvement will ease their trauma and enable them to start rebuilding their lives. Likewise, the decision of parents not to commemorate their infants by a memorial would not be interpreted 67 Frier (1982), p. 247. 68 Prior to the late 1970s, the hospital would deal with all stillbirths and perinatal deaths. The standard practice was to clean the baby, dress it in a white cotton bag which would be stitched up and covered with a clear polythene bag. The porter would then remove the corpse in a small wooden case, either for burial within the hospital grounds, or to the incinerator in the case of severe abnormalities or very permature births. For the above information, I should like to thank my mother, Margaret W. King, RGN, SRM, who has been a staff midwife since the late 1960s. 69 Golding, et al. (1985), p. 162.

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as indifference; rather the financial burdens of young parents and the common practice of burying babies in a very simple manner would be offered in explanation. Similar considerations should be extended to Roman traditions of funerary commemoration. In addition to the issue of cost involved in setting up an inscribed marble tombstone, the under-recording of infants, as revealed by the epigraphic pattern in CIL VI, clearly indicates that social custom did not require infants to be honoured with a permanent memorial. As with the modern parallel, this lack of commemoration should not be taken to indicate that the parents in question did not grieve at all for their infant children; allowance must be made for financial constraints and for the culturally acceptable practices of the Romans. In modern cemeteries, it was noted that most infants are commemorated not at the time of death, but at a much later date, when one of the parents dies; individual commemorations are rare. By contrast, in Roman funerary inscriptions the greatest proportion of infants are commemorated on their own: of the 1,357 inscriptions to 0–4-year-olds, 1,086 were individual dedications, that is 80 per cent. Of those inscriptions which are joint commemorations, in 35.5 per cent of cases the co-dedicatee is a child; whereas mothers and fathers account for only 10.1 per cent and 5.6 per cent respectively of joint dedications.70 Moreover, Roman epitaphs to infants in general, not simply verse inscriptions, tend to be more thorough in detail than their modern counterparts. In contrast to the non-specific ‘died in infancy’ found on most modern tombstones, all Roman epitaphs 70 The discrepancy between modern and ancient practices as regards joint dedications is a product of the different mortality patterns in the two societies. At Rome the mortality rate among children, particularly the very young, was much greater than among adolescents and adults; multiple dedications to children are, therefore, extremely common (e.g. CIL VI 8038; 8198; 13027; 15160; 22013; 27572; 28055; 28967). In Western urban societies of the late twentieth century the largest proportion of deaths is among the elderly and it is rare for children to die in infancy; as a result, nowadays few gravestones commemorate more than one child.

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except two71 give the infant’s age in terms of years, months and days. Some commemorators recorded the age of their young children at death with a precision that is quite remarkable: in 69 examples (5.1 per cent) of infant epitaphs, the age of the child is actually specified to the number of hours.72 For example, Aelius Romanus is said to have lived three years, nine months, 25 days and five hours (CIL VI 10784) and Martialis is recorded as having lived one year, five months and two-and-a-half hours (CIL VI 12526). In only three cases (0.2 per cent) is the child’s age represented by the number of years and the vague phrase plus minus, ‘more or less’ (CIL VI 12403; 17935; 27147). Therefore, the fact that most commemorators went to the trouble and expense of specially commissioning a unique, and often detailed, memorial for a child who had lived for such a short time would suggest that the infant in question was loved and valued while alive, and missed in death. On modern funerary monuments, even when the infant had predeceased his or her parent(s), the common practice is to have the child’s name in last position. This order of precedence is due to the fact that the tombstone is dedicated primarily to the parent; the infant having died some 40 or 50 years beforehand in many cases. The study made by Rawson of alumni and vernae inscriptions in CIL VI produced similar results: only a third of the children’s names were recorded in first position; in other cases the dedicator’s name precedes.73 This pattern, she claims, ‘reinforces the picture of alumni (and vernae) as a socially inferior group: young and of comparatively low status’.74 On the basis of this, it would seem that 71 CIL VI 28695; 36355: the only indication of age is infans. However, since the Romans used the term infans to designate the period from birth to childhood (Quintilian, Instit. Or. 1.5; 1.15), it is not certain that these two inscriptions are dedicated to children in the 0–4 years age group. 72 The registration of births from the time of Augustus suggests that the recording of such precise ages at death could be accurate, and not simply another convention of funerary epigraphy. For examples of birth certificates, see Sandars (1927, 1928); Schulz (1942–43). 73 Rawson (1986), pp. 185 and 195. 74 See Flory (1984) for a discussion of the order of names in epitaphs.

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in both modern and ancient tombstones first position is reserved for the most important person in the epitaph. Since infants too were, by Roman standards, ‘a socially inferior group’, the order of names in their epitaphs should, therefore, be similar to the pattern outlined by Rawson. Yet, of the 1,022 infant inscriptions in which the name of the dedicator is given, in 76.6 per cent of cases it is the child’s name which precedes. Moreover, proportionally, the greatest number of individual commemorations is among 0–1-year-olds, the age group commonly assumed to be the most heavily under-represented in the funerary inscriptions. In the extremely status-conscious society that was ancient Rome, it is significant that in infant epitaphs parents and other commemorators forego the public advertisement of their own prominence. This evidence is, therefore, all the more valuable and instructive, since, by implication, it indicates the extent to which these dedicators loved, and lamented, their infant children.

Epithets for infants

I

n contrast to modern tombstones where the child’s name is generally recorded without any descriptive phrase, on almost half of Roman funerary memorials infants have one or two epithets: the 1,357 inscriptions revealed 634 epithets. However, since there is a doubling of epithets in several cases, the actual number of infant tombstones with an epithet is reduced to less than half the total: 570. Most commonly, one of the two epithets is benemerens, the standard adjective applied to adults and children alike;75 but benemerens is different from all other epithets in that it appears most often in inscriptions as a formulaic end phrase.76 Although, this doubling is 75 For example, the dedication to three-year-old Marus is to f(ilio) dulcissimo et benemerenti (CIL VI 22316). For the application of benemerens to adults in infant inscriptions, while the child has a different epithet or no epithet at all, see CIL VI 8461, 11175, 14105, 16185, 16579, 22385, 24452, 25288, 27799, 29230, 33227, 34633, 35123, 37176. 76 Nielsen (1997, pp. 179–85) compares the formulaic use of benemerens (in

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also found with other combinations: Callistianus (CIL VI 29287) is described as ‘most sweet and most charming’ and Fortunata, ‘most pious, but unfortunate’ (CIL VI 18566). Most of these epithets, given in the superlative form of the adjective,77 stress the moral qualities of the deceased child: benemerens, pientissimus, piissimus, incomparabilis, sanctissimus, optimus. Such epithets are a reflection of the mors immatura theme and the idea of precocity:78 these children, though very young, were already beginning to display the valued Roman virtutes. Other epithets are of a more affectionate nature and reflect the depth of feeling between the adult commemorator and the child: carissimus, dulcissimus, innocentissimus, suavissimus, amantissimus, blandissimus. By far the most common epithet, for both sexes and in all five infant age categories, is dulcissimus, which forms 46.1 per cent of the total (Figure 5.5). Such a result contrasts with the study made by Nielsen of 2,220 epithets in CIL VI: benemerens constituted 83 per cent of the total, dulcissimus only 12 per cent. Yet, in infant tombstones benemerens accounts for only 23 per cent of all epithets. According to Nielsen ‘benemerens, when used as an epithet proper, seems primarily to have been used to characterize relationships based on obligation. The relatives of the commemorated persons express their gratitude towards the deceased, who has done what could be expected to make the relationship a harmonious one.’79 Nielsen’s definition of benemerens explains the proportional the abbreviated form of B. M.) as a conclusion to the epithet with the use of D. M. as an opening. For this use of benemerens, see CIL VI 29287, quoted in the main text, and those inscriptions where B. M. appears as part of the phrase benemerenti fecit/erunt: CIL VI 12366, 18661, 22936, 24012, 25728, 34640. 77 Occasionally, the simple form of the adjective is found (cf the use of infelici in CIL VI 18566, quoted in the main text), most commonly in the phrases carus/a suis (CIL VI 17240; 26467; 27534) and animae bonae (CIL VI 26473; 36101). 78 For the precocious child in literature, see Carp (1980); on sarcophagi, Kampen (1988). The dedication to 10-month-old Aurelius Gelasius is to homo innocentissimus (CIL VI 13112); of two-year-old Flavius Hermes, it is said hic tamen in biennio vixit quasi qui vixisset sedecim annis (CIL VI 18086). 79 Nielsen (1997), p. 185.

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Figure 5.5: Total number of infant inscriptions by epithet. Epithet

Number

benemerens carissimus dulcissimus pientissimus piissimus other

146 085 292 042 029 040

Total

634

Total

Percentage 23.0 13.4 46.1 06.6 04.6 06.3

‘other’: iucundissimus; infelicissimus; innocentissimus; amantissimus; amabilissimus; optimus; blandissimus; sanctissimus; suavissimus ‘other’ as % of epithets: <1 (13.2%); 1–2 (8.3%); 2–3 (6.3%); 3–4 (4.0%); >4 (3.8%)

discrepancy between the two samples of inscriptions. Nielsen’s sample included adults; but here the age restriction is four years. Therefore, infants are unlikely to be described as ‘behaving well’, since their age would preclude their relationship to the commemorator as being one based genuinely upon obligation and gratitude.80 With the exception of benemerens, which is used mostly in the formulaic sense for infants, the second most popular epithet applied to the very young is carissimus: 13.4 per cent of the total sample. The numerical difference between carissmus and dulcissmius in infant epitaphs can be explained with reference to Nielsen’s conclusions.81 Both epithets denote a warm and intimate relationship; but carissimus is used of a wider range of relations, being particularly common for spouses.82 However, those characterized as dulcissimus tend to be 80 The sentiments expressed in two verse inscriptions confirm that the relationship between commemorators and infants cannot have been based upon obligation and gratitude. Of two-year-old Flavius Hermes, it is said qui maluit luctum linquere quam gratias reddere suis (CIL VI 18086); two-year-old Siculina is made to claim ante dedi matri et patri luctum quam bracchia circum darem, quam grata fuerim matri aut patri (CIL VI 26544). 81 Nielsen (1997), pp. 185–93.

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much younger—most are under five years—and in 68 per cent of cases, this epithet is used of a son or daughter. In Nielsen’s survey pientissimus and piissimus, taken as a single category, formed 10 per cent of all epithets found, and are applied most commonly to 15-year-olds.83 In infant dedications, pientissimus and piissimus account for 6.6 per cent and 4.6 per cent respectively of the total number of epithets. Such findings are not surprising, given that small children cannot reasonably have been expected to perform any acts of pietas towards their parents. In cases where infants are described as pientissimus or piissimus, this seems primarily to be a means of expressing the precocity of the child.84 Interestingly, no infants in the 0–1 year age group have been given either of these epithets, and only among four-year-olds are these epithets more popular than carissimus. Therefore, from the distribution of epithets in infant dedications, it seems clear that parents were careful in selecting a suitable phrase for their child. The application of epithets was not simply gratuitous, but designed to reflect the qualities of the deceased child. By contrast, on modern gravestones, the presence of ‘dear’ and ‘beloved’, etc. is ubiquitous; the use of epithets does not vary significantly in accordance with the age of the deceased. Although the epithets on Roman inscriptions doubtless owe much to the conventions of funerary epigraphy, their use is nowhere near as banal as those on modern tombstones. In view of such considerations, it is not unreasonable to assume that these epithets are indeed expressions of genuine affection and sorrow on the part of the parents. 82 According to Nielsen’s findings (1997, p. 191, Fig. 8.3), the peak age for the use of carissimus as an epithet is 25 years. 83 Nielsen (1997), pp. 193–98; Fig. 8.5: commemorated sons and daughters constitute the greatest proportion: 54 per cent. 84 Nielsen (1997, p. 198) believes that the application of pientissimus/piissimus to adolescent children is a projection of the disappointed hopes of the bereaved parents: ‘The parents’ expectation of pietas had been frustrated by their son or daughter’s untimely death and this is what they express … by characterizing them as pientissimi/piissimi in a situation where they had themselves, contrary to nature, shown pietas towards their children’.

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Figure 5.6: Epithets in proportion to inscriptions with infants by age and sex. Age

Epit.

Male Inscr.

Perc.

Epit.

Female Inscr.

Perc.

<1 1–2 2–3 3–4 >4

37 90 97 83 86

086 191 210 198 171

43.0 47.1 46.2 41.9 50.3

16 67 45 66 47

042 131 097 129 102

38.1 51.1 46.4 51.2 46.1

3930

856

45.9

2410

501

48.1

Total

Epit. = Number of epithets Inscr. = Number of inscriptions Perc. = Epithets as a percentage of inscriptions

As noted, serious biases impair the value of funerary epigraphy as an ancient source. Two of the most important defects are age and sex bias, especially in the 0–1-year-old age group. Yet if infant epithets are taken in proportion to the total number of infant inscriptions, then these biases disappear. As the figures presented in Figure 5.6 indicate, babies under one year were not less likely than any other infant age group to receive an epithet. In fact, somewhat surprisingly, the highest percentage of original/uncommon epithets (amantissimus, innocentissimus, optimus, etc.; here subsumed under the term ‘other’) actually belongs to the 0–1 year age group: 13.2 per cent. Therefore, according to the CIL VI pattern, the younger the child, the less likely were commemorators to resort to conventional epithets. Clearly, these parents were moved by the deaths of their small children. Similar principles of proportional representation reveal that male infants were not more likely than females to receive an epithet: 45.9 per cent of dedications to male infants contain an epithet; 48.1 per cent to females. So, in fact, although the difference is only marginal, proportionally more female infants than males received an epithet. At least from this custom of funerary commemoration, such findings illustrate that sons were not valued more than daughters. Since the main concern here is with the extent to which

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funerary epigraphy can be used to gauge the feelings of the commemorators for the children whom they have lost in infancy, this final section is devoted to expressions of grief on tombstones erected to infants. The literary sources, as mentioned, indicate that excessive displays of all emotion provoked censure. Society prescribed that the upper classes should conceal their grief, or at least be moderate in their sorrow; but any signs of emotion at the death of an infant were condemned even more strongly (Cicero, Tusc. Disput. 1.39.93). In Latin literature, there are only six historical cases of grief for a child aged 0–4 years, and only one of these are for a female.85 From this paucity of texts it seems that it was considered improper for the elite to mourn very young children. For example, Seneca is extremely critical of Marullus for grieving over the death of his infant son: ‘Is it solace that you look for? Let me give you a scolding instead. You are like a woman in the way that you take your son’s death; what would you do if you had lost an intimate friend? A son, a little child of unknown promise, is dead; a fragment of time has been lost.’86 The funerary inscriptions in CIL VI, however, suggest no such restraint upon the part of parents at the death of an infant child. Parents of the lower classes did not feel the same compulsion to be controlled in their grief that the ideals and values of the elite demanded of upper class parents. The clearest indication of the sorrow of the bereaved is to be found in the verse epitaphs; these obviously lend themselves to more elaborate and poignant manifestations of grief than the matter-of-fact conciseness generally 85 The six texts are Tacitus, Ann. 15.23 (AD 63): Nero’s daughter; Seneca, Ep. Mor. 99 (mid first century AD): Marullus’s son; Martial, Epigr. 7.96 (late first century AD): Urbicus, an infant mourned by Bassus; Statius, Silv. 5.5 (late first century AD): his adopted son; Fronto de nepote omisso ii (AD 165), who lost five children, mourns the death of his grandson; Ausonius, Parentalia X (fourth century AD): his firstborn son; Herodes’s grief for his son dead on the day of birth, Fronto, ad M. Caes. 1.6.7. (AD 144/45). 86 Seneca, Ep. Mor. 99 (Loeb, trans. by R. M. Gummere): solacia expectas? convicia accipe. molliter tu fers mortem filii; quid faceres, si amicum perdidisses? decessit filius incertae spei, parvulus, pusillum temporis periit.

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required by prose inscriptions. In the case of prose inscriptions the most common pointer to parental sorrow is the epithet infelicissimus. Although, this occurs in only 42 (3.1 per cent) of inscriptions in which commemorators are named; for example, a father describes himself as infelicissimus and aeterno dolore adflictus (CIL VI 15268). But such a meagre number does not mean that the majority of parental dedicators did not grieve for their infants; rather this figure is again the product of the conventions of Roman funerary epigraphy. On modern tombstones, the bereaved do not express their own feelings of grief, but refer more commonly to their affective relationship to the deceased by such phrases as ‘dearly loved’ and ‘gone, but not forgotten’. So too on Roman tombstones, commemorators do not express their sorrow by choosing particular epithets for themselves; custom dictated that grief be shown through epithets applied to the deceased child.

Infants and verse epitaphs

V

erse epitaphs are not the most reliable guide to the interpretation of grief on tombstones. Verse inscriptions may have been recorded in handbooks available at the workshops of stonemasons and are unlikely to have been composed by the dedicators themselves. Therefore, the authenticity of any expressions of sorrow is questionable. Poetic licence probably plays a part in the emotions contained in the verses: doubts are raised about the sincerity of the grief uttered. Verse epitaphs form only 2.2 per cent (30) of the 1,357 inscriptions in CIL VI dedicated to 0–4-year-olds.87 Yet, contrary to expectation, of the epitaphs to 10–14-year-olds only 1.9 per cent (14) are in verse. Therefore, older children were not always 87 Verse inscriptions in CIL VI: 0–4 years: 5621, 6319, 7479, 10764, 11592, 12087, 14786, 16059, 17196, 18086, 19331, 19747, 20128, 22321, 22994, 23010, 24961, 26203, 26544, 26623, 26680, 27060, 27140, 27383, 28044, 28239, 29884, 34817, 35126; 10–14 years: 6182, 7898, 10731, 12009, 12013, 14578, 19874, 20674, 27728, 28228, 29436, 29609, 29629, 30110.

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accorded the most lavish laments because their death represented a greater loss to the parents.88 Moreover, the verse epitaphs do not support Dixon’s contention that the theme of mors immatura is appplied more often to older children than to infants: 40 per cent of infant dedications, 36 per cent of 10–14-year-old commemorations, mention mors immatura.89 The poetic laments to 10–14-year-olds were not in fact more detailed or more original than those in the infant age group. Similar themes recur throughout the epitaphs in both age categories: the merciless cruelty of Fate; the precocity of the child; the afterlife. Parents of infants and older children alike vividly describe their sorrow at the untimely and painful demise of their cherished sons and daughters. Therefore, Roman verse inscriptions parallel the findings of current research into bereavement that the age of the child at death is not a major factor in determining the emotional impact upon parents. In one sociobiological investigation of 263 bereaved parents and their immediate families, it was predicted that older children would be grieved for more intensely than younger children; because older children generally have had more time and energy invested in them than younger ones, their death should represent a greater loss. Results showed that the hypothetical correlation between parental grief intensity and age of child was not of any significance.90 The verse inscriptions to infants demonstrate that for the commemorators in question the death of a young child did represent a very real and great loss. Beneath the artistic veneer and the 88 Dixon (1988), p. 24. 89 Dixon (1992), p. 100. 90 See Littlefield and Rushton (1980). The empirical investigation conducted by Kohner and Henley (1991) is one of an increasing number of studies to acknowledge that the death of a baby can have a profound effect on the parents. In view of the importance of children in Roman society, the following conclusion must have applied also to many Roman parents: ‘The loss of a baby is the loss of a person … A baby’s death is also the death of a person who would have been. It means the ending of dreams and hopes and plans, the loss of future. Even a baby lost in the earliest stages of pregnancy may have this significance for the parents’ (Kohner and Henley (1991), p. 9).

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careful reworking of the expression of the emotions, which inevitably detracts from any sense of immediacy but need not cast doubts upon the sincerity of the sentiments, the impression of deep sorrow is unmistakable. As has been emphasized, cross-cultural parallels indicate that borrowed images and ornate language are used most often to convey genuine grief. As with ordinary inscriptions, verse epitaphs have their standard phrases for the expression of grief; the most popular is the formulaic nolite dolere, parentes. Here the child is represented as entreating his or her sorrowful parents not to mourn, for death was decreed by fate. In addition to these three examples, another 15 verse epitaphs in the 0–4-year-old group express parental grief in some form or other. Therefore, in 60 per cent of verse epitaphs parents describe their sorrow for their infant child; by contrast, there are only four such cases in the 10–14 years age category (28.6 per cent). This result further contradicts the assumption that parents would grieve more intensely for older children. In these epitaphs parents vent their sorrow by referring to themselves as ‘weeping’ or to the tears that they have shed; by complaining that their child has been ‘snatched’ from them; by describing their child as ‘ungrateful’ in dying; or by emphasizing the idea of futility and wasted effort. These last two laments should not be interpreted as self-interest or a lack of feeling on the part of Roman parents: they are an open admission of a reaction to death which our society prefers to be left unexpressed publicly. Both belong to the complex process of grieving just as much as more acceptable feelings of loss and missing the deceased as a dearly-loved individual. In addition to frank declarations of sorrow, from the results of a study of the various types of commemorators of infant tombstones, it can be surmised that for many parents the death of a young child was a real occasion for grief. By far the largest proportion of those who dedicated memorials to infants were parents. Of the 1,164 dedicators named in infant funerary inscriptions, parents, both as individuals and as mother and father together, form 72.2 per cent (840) of the total (Figure 5.7). In this category fathers are

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Figure 5.7: Categories of commemorators in infant inscriptions. Commemorator father mother both parents owner surrogate other relative unknown/other relationship Total

Number 280 146 414 131 102 057 034

Total

Percentage 24.1 12.5 35.6 11.3 08.8 04.9 02.9

1,1640,

owner: dominus/a; patronus/a; libertus/a; delicatus/delicium; verna surrogate: nutrix; mamma; tata; alumnus other relative: vitricus; avus; avia; avunculus; matertera; frater; soror; nepos

better represented than mothers as individual commemorators:91 the respective figures are 24.1 per cent (280) and 12.5 per cent (146); both parents as dedicators account for 35.6 per cent (414). Such findings illustrate the importance of nuclear family relations among the lower orders. Contrary to the impression of Roman family life given by a number of social historians, especially Bradley, as unstable and complex, the funerary inscriptions of CIL VI would suggest that the majority of the infants commemorated were raised within a close and secure environment in which both parents were 91 The greater number of dedications in which only the father is named need not imply that the child lacked a mother, either through death, divorce, sale or some other circumstances. Since finance played a large part in determining the size and wording of epitaphs and because the father is likely to have been financially responsible for the tombstone, many less well-off couples might have been forced to include only the father’s name. Although Flory (1984, p. 216) refers to a husband’s name preceding his wife’s in joint dedications, her conclusion that this pattern ‘reflects the husband’s position as head of his family and the man’s more important role in Roman society’ is a credible explanation for the prominence of paternal dedicators on infant tombstones. Conversely, since women are less likely to have been in charge of finances, those epitaphs where the mother is the sole commemorator would suggest that the father was in fact absent, possibly for the reasons given above.

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present.92 Therefore, it does not seem unreasonable to speculate that these children were loved and valued while alive, and were sorely missed in death.

Conclusion

A

s a source in general, the value of funerary epigraphy is impaired by a number of biases. Although the importance of these defects should not be underestimated, the funerary inscriptions in CIL VI are still invaluable as evidence, not least because they offer an insight into social groups largely ignored by the literature of the elite. Tombstones redress the imbalance constituted by the literary sources: they contain a greater proportion of expressions of grief for infant children. More importantly, many of these epitaphs are expressions of grief for female children or examples of mothers displaying sorrow at the death of their infant children; in both of these the literary evidence is deficient.93 The influence of custom and fashion and the dependence upon conventional images and idioms complicate the use of funerary inscriptions as a guide to the reactions of Roman parents to the death of a child in infancy. Tradition need not, however, preclude the conclusion that feelings of genuine sorrow were indeed a motivating factor in the erection of a memorial to infants. In such cases, genuine grief is all the more likely to have been responsible for the decision to make a dedication, since pressure at the societal level to honour children so young by a permanent memorial in stone was much less than that to commemorate older age groups. Therefore, it is unjustifiable to assert dogmatically that the sentiments on infant tombstones are ‘artificial’; within the restrictions imposed by tradition and society, 92 Bradley (1991). 93 In literature, maternal reactions to the death of a child in infancy are reported or commented upon only indirectly by male writers. Of the six examples of grief for an infant in Latin literature (see above), only in Fronto’s letter is the sorrow of the child’s mother mentioned (de nepote omisso ii).

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there is still scope for the expression of true sorrow on the part of the individual.94 The format may be standardized, but on many of the monuments themselves the commemorator’s anguish and sense of loss is unequivocal.

Bibliography Ariès, P. (1973), Centuries of childhood, trans. R. Baldick, Harmondsworth. Originally published as L’enfant et la vie familiale sous l’ancien régime, Paris, 1960. Averill, J. R. (1988), ‘Grief: its nature and significance’, Pyschological Bulletin 70, pp. 721–48. Bowlby, J. (1980), Loss. Sadness and Depression, London. Bradley, K. R. (1986), ‘Wet-nursing at Rome: a study in social relations’, in The family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives, ed. B. Rawson, London and Sydney, pp. 201–29. Bradley, K. R. (1991), Discovering the Roman Family: Studies in Roman Social History, Oxford. Brunt, P. A. (1971), Italian manpower 225 BC–AD 14, Oxford. Burn, A. R. (1953), ‘Hic breve vivitur: a study of expectation of life in the Roman Empire’, PastPres 4, pp. 1–31. Carp, T. C. (1980), ‘Puer senex in Roman and Medieval thought’, Latomus 39, pp. 736–39. Dixon, S. (1988), The Roman Mother, London and Sydney. Dixon, S. (1992), The Roman Family, Baltimore and London. Duncan-Jones, R. P. (1982), The Economy of the Roman Empire: Quantitative Studies, Cambridge. Engels, D. (1980), ‘The problem of female infanticide in the Greco-Roman world’, CP 75, pp. 112–20. Etienne, R. (1976), ‘Ancient medical conscience and the life of children’, Journal of Psychohistory 4, pp. 131–61.

94 Shaw (1987), p. 34; Shaw (1991), p. 67.

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Flory, M. B. (1984), ‘Where women precede men: factors influencing the order of names in Roman epitaphs’, CJ 79, pp. 216–24. Frier, B. (1982), ‘Roman life expectancy: Ulpian’s evidence’, HSCP 86, pp. 213–51. Garnsey, P. D. A. (1991), ‘Child-rearing in Ancient Italy’, in The family in Italy from Antiquity to the Present, ed. D. I. Kertzer and R. P. Saller, New Haven and London, pp. 48–65. Garnsey, P. D. A. and R. P. Saller (1987), The Roman Empire: Economy, Culture and Society, London. Golden, M. (1988), ‘Did the ancients care when their children died?’, GaR 35, pp. 152–63. Golden, M. (1990), Children and Childhood in Classical Athens, Baltimore and London. Golding, J., S. Limerick and A. Macfarlane (1985), Sudden infant death— patterns, puzzles and problems, Somerset. Gorer, G. (1965), Death, grief and mourning in contemporary Britain, London. Harkness, A. G. (1896), ‘Age at marriage and death in the Roman Empire’, TAPA 27, pp. 35–72. Hopkins, K. (1966), ‘On the probable age structure of the Roman population’, Population Studies 20, pp. 245–64. Hopkins, K. (1983), Death and Renewal, Cambridge. Hopkins, K. (1987), ‘Graveyards for historians’, in La mort, les morts et l’au-delà dans le monde romaine, ed. F. Hinard, Caen, pp. 113–26. Johanssen, S. R. (1987), ‘Centuries of childhood/centuries of parenting: Philippe Ariès and the modernization of privileged infancy’, EchCl 36, n.s. 11, pp. 7–18. Jones, H. (1990), Population Geography, London. Kampen, N. (1988), ‘Biographical Narration in Roman Funerary Art’, AJA 85, pp. 47–58. Kleiner, D. E. E. (1977), Roman group portraiture: the funerary reliefs of the late Republic and early Empire, New York and London. Kohner, N. and A. Henley (1991), When a baby dies: the experience of late miscarriage, stillbirth and neonatal death, London. Lattimore, R. (1962), Themes in Greek and Latin epitaphs, Urbana, IL.

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Littlefield, C. H. and J. P. Rushton (1980), ‘When a child dies: the sociobiology of bereavement’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 51, pp. 797–802. Lo Cascio, E. (1994), ‘The size of the Roman population: Beloch and the meaning of the Augustan census figures’, JRS 84, pp. 23–40. Lyons, J. (1981), Language and Linguistics: An Introduction, Cambridge. MacFarlane, A. (1981), ‘Death and the demographic transition: a note on the English evidence 1500–1700’, in Mortality and Immortality: the Anthropology and Archaeology of Death, ed. S. C. Humphreys and H. King, London, pp. 249–59. MacMullen, R. (1982), ‘The epigraphic habit in the Roman Empire’, AJP 103, pp. 233–46. Manson, M. (1983), ‘The emergence of the small child in Rome (third century BC–first century AD)’, History of Education 12, pp. 149–59. Meyer, E. A. (1990), ‘Explaining the epigraphic pattern in the Roman Empire: the evidence of epitaphs’, JRS 80, pp. 74–96. Morris, I. (1992), Death-Ritual and Social Structure in Classical Antiquity, Cambridge. Myles, M. (1965), A Textbook for Midwives, 5th edn, Edinburgh. Néraudau, J. P. (1984), Etre enfant à Rome, Paris. Néraudau, J. P. (1987), ‘La loi, la coutume et la chagrin—réflexions sur la mort des enfants’, in La mort, les morts et l’au-delà dans la monde romaine, ed. F. Hinard, Caen, pp. 195–208. Nielsen, H. S. (1987), ‘Alumnus, a term of relation denoting quasi-adoption’, ClMed 38, pp. 141–88. Nielsen, H. S. (1997), ‘Interpreting epithets in Roman epitaphs’, in The Roman Family in Italy, ed. B. Rawson, Canberra and Oxford, pp. 169–204. Parkin, T. G. (1992), Demography and Roman society, Baltimore and London. Pollock, L. A. (1983), Forgotten Children: Parent–child Relations from 1500 to 1900, Cambridge. Raphael, B. (1984), The Anatomy of Bereavement: a handbook for the caring professions, London. Rawson, B. (1966), ‘Family life among the lower classes at Rome in the first two centuries of the Empire’, CP 61, pp. 71–83.

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Rawson, B. (1986), ‘Children in the Roman Familia’, in The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives, ed. B. Rawson, London and Sydney, pp. 170–200. Rawson, B. (1991), ‘Adult–child relationships in Rome’, in Marriage, Divorce and Children in Ancient Rome, ed. B. Rawson, Canberra and Oxford, pp. 7–30. Saller, R. P. and B. D. Shaw (1984), ‘Tombstones and Roman family relations in the Principate: civilians, soldiers and slaves’, JRS 74, pp. 124–56. Sandars, H. A. (1927), ‘The birth certificate of a Roman citizen’, CP 22, pp. 409–13. Sandars, H. A. (1928), ‘Birth certificate of the year AD 145’, AJA 32, pp. 309–29. Sanders, C. M. (1989), Grief: the mourning after. Dealing with adult bereavement, New York. Schulz, F. (1942–43), ‘Roman registers of births and birth certificates’, JRS 32, pp. 78–91; 33, pp. 55–64. Shaw, B. D. (1987), ‘The age of Roman girls at marriage: some reconsiderations’, JRS 77, pp. 30–46. Shaw, B. D. (1991), ‘The cultural meaning of death: age and gender in the Roman family’, in The family in Italy from antiquity to the present, ed. D. I. Kertzer and R. P. Saller, New Haven and London, pp. 66–90. Shorter, E. (1976), The making of the modern family, London. Stone, L. (1977), The family, sex and marriage in England 1500–1800, London. Susini, G. (1973), The Roman stonecutter: an introduction to Latin epigraphy, Oxford. Taylor, L. R. (1961), ‘Freedmen and freeborn in the epitaphs of Imperial Rome’, AJP 82, pp. 113–32. Toynbee, J. M. C. (1971), Death and Burial in the Roman World, London. Treggiari, S. (1975), ‘Family life among the staff of the Volusii’, TAPA 105, pp. 393–401. Wiedemann, T. (1989), Adults and children in the Roman Empire, London.

CHAPTER SIX

Inscription and Sculpture: the Construction of Identity in the Military Tombstones of Roman Mainz Valerie Hope Friend! For your epitaphs I’m griev’d, Where still so much is said, One half will never be believ’d, The other never read. Alexander Pope, Epigram. On one who made long epitaphs (1738)

Introduction

E

pitaphs are set up to be read. They communicate to the living information about the dead. Yet to read a gravestone is to read more than the words of the inscription. The object as a whole communicates; its size, decor and location, as well as the epitaph, all summon the attention of the onlooker and together seek to tell a story, however simple. The tombstone evokes the memory of the dead but is set up by the living for the instruction of the living. The diversity in shape, size, adornment and epigraphic content of Roman tombstones suggests the diversity inherent in the living

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Roman society; differences in wealth and status could be expressed through the funerary medium. The cemeteries appear to capture social realities and thus we expect to discover a reflection of the rank order of the Roman hierarchy. Yet such a direct interpretation would ignore the rhetoric of commemoration; tombstones may make assertions about social standing which cannot be interpreted literally. Archaeological and anthropological investigations of burial evidence have asserted that the medium can witness the construction of ideals rather than the reflection of realities.1 Indeed close analysis of the funerary monuments of the city of Rome has indicated how certain social groups became prominent within the cemetery, a prominence which they may not have attained during life.2 This chapter will explore the funerary memorials of a Roman settlement in Germany. The fort of Mainz offers a differing context to Rome for the analysis of tombstones. In a highly structured military environment do gravestones reflect the normative hierarchy? Or does the funerary evidence communicate and construct ideals about both the living and the dead?

Maximizing the evidence

P

rior to undertaking a detailed examination of the Mainz tombstones it is essential to establish the best way of approaching this type of evidence. In research on Roman funerary material the emphasis repeatedly falls on the epitaph. There is no exact figure available for the number of inscriptions surviving from the Roman world, and with the discovery every year of new material the target is constantly moving. Saller and Shaw have estimated that around 250,000 inscriptions survive and the majority of these originate from the funerary context.3 This figure is enormous and one need only

1 2 3

Hodder (1982); Parker-Pearson (1982). Zanker (1975); Kleiner (1977). Saller and Shaw (1984), p. 124.

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glance at the volumes of the Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (CIL) to realise how vast the amount of material is. For sheer quantity the evidence of inscriptions, much of which is funerary in nature, has to be regarded as one of the primary sources available for the Roman era. Prosopography, demography and social history are all subjects which have seen extensive use of epigraphic data. The compilation and publication of CIL has frequently facilitated such studies; only with the availability of inscriptions en masse has it been possible to utilize them for large-scale surveys on the demography of the Roman populace4 and the structure of the Roman family.5 CIL has given rise to statistical studies which have had considerable influence in the recent writing of Roman social history. Yet numbers may be misleading and can create a false sense of security. A warning bell was sounded by Hopkins in the 1960s when the basic flaws in using epigraphic data as a method for reconstructing the demography of the Roman populace were revealed.6 Hopkins noted that statements of age were not uniformly provided across the population, instead being characteristic of certain groups within society. Thus attempts to calculate average ages at death from information provided in epitaphs overlooked the point that the content of the epitaph was controlled by the customs of commemoration. The isolation of one aspect of the inscription for study was creating potentially false impressions of Roman society. CIL presents thousands of epitaphs, each containing verbal information which can be easily read, analyzed and compared. In reality there is much more to the commemoration of the dead than the written word. There is a danger of viewing epitaphs as self-contained and forgetting that an inscription is only one aspect, often indeed the final aspect, of a whole series of events. The rituals surrounding death illustrate this well; the death of an individual has 4 5 6

Burn (1953); Frier (1982); Hopkins (1966). Saller and Shaw (1984); Shaw (1984). See also Saller (1994). Hopkins (1966); Hopkins (1987).

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the potential to threaten the stability of a society and thus the actions, dress and allocated roles of the survivors guide behaviour over a troubled time.7 Mourning, funerals and acts of commemoration are integral to the rites of passage. Replacing the epitaph within this full ritual context may be problematic, but it still remains essential to remember that an epitaph does not, and did not in the Roman period, exist in isolation. An epitaph was associated with a memorial and the memorial with a cemetery and the cemetery with a settlement. The ordering of the academic mind has often led to the breaking up of the available funerary evidence into the appropriate fields of epigraphy, art history, architecture and archaeology. Recently, however, there has been renewed emphasis on viewing the evidence as an integrated whole.8 Ian Morris in particular has stressed the value of funerary evidence as a method for illuminating the structure and functioning of society providing that context, in terms of time, space and location, is constantly gauged: ‘The key to manipulating this evidence is the use of context. No single feature of burial practices can be separated and treated in isolation.’9 Emphasizing that ideally the funerary record should be viewed as integrated is all very well in theory, but in reality there is a need to be realistic about the available resources and what can be achieved. Only rarely do we have contextually complete cemeteries or areas of cemeteries for the Roman period. There are a few fine examples, such as the necropoleis of Pompeii,10 the Isola Sacra11 and the Vatican necropolis,12 where the memorials survive in situ with epitaphs, decor and grave goods still in place. Yet most funerary evidence from across the empire exists in a far from perfect form; epitaphs are disembodied; graves are now unmarked; memorials have 7 8

Hertz (1960); Van Gennep (1960); Huntington and Metcalf (1979). Devijver and Van Wonterghem (1990); Jones (1993); D’Ambra (1993); Rajak (1994). 9 Morris (1992), p. 203. 10 D’Ambrosio and De Caro (1983); Kockel (1987). 11 Calza (1940). 12 Toynbee and Ward-Perkins (1956).

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been reused; sculpture and inscriptions are lost. CIL is in many ways a depressing sight since it is a product and an instrument in this process of disassociation; thousands of epitaphs are listed with little information provided on monument type, decor or circumstances of discovery. In many cases that evidence is impossible to reconstruct; but when the epitaphs can be traced back to their memorials a wealth of information often awaits. Ideally for an epitaph to be fully understood its context and role need to be established. The contents of an epitaph could vary dramatically according to its location and function. A titular epitaph on the exterior of a tomb, such as a house tomb of the Isola Sacra or Vatican necropolis, could differ substantially from a subsidiary epitaph within the interior.13 Further the visibility and communicative range of the inscription could be controlled by its position and associated decor. Thus although it may not always be possible to reconstruct the Roman cemetery it is still essential to optimize the information which is available, even if this is limited to reassociating inscription and monument. A few crucial studies have done just this, bridging the gap between epigraphy and art history. Zanker and Kleiner have both studied the funerary portraiture of Rome during the late Republic and early empire, and by relating the sculpture to the associated inscriptions have established how such portraiture was mainly commissioned by freed slaves.14 Similarly Devijver has considered epitaphs commemorating early imperial equestrian officers which were associated with distinctive monument types and decorative themes.15 In these cases it is possible to assess how the individual funerary memorial operated and to relate the behaviour of specific groups to the structure of Roman society. Words and pictures were combined together on the funerary monument to create an impression of the deceased which was projected into the future. In considering the tombstones of Mainz it is essential to assess the varied 13 Eck (1987), p. 61; Hope (1997a). 14 Zanker (1975); Kleiner (1977); Kleiner (1987). 15 Devijver (1989), pp. 416–49; Devijver and Van Wonterghem (1990).

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ways in which the memorials communicated. How do image and text function on the Mainz funerary monuments and how can the messages emitted be related to the structure of Mainz society?

The tombstones of Mainz

M

ainz was established as a military base during the late first century BC; it remained a fort throughout its Roman history. A series of legions and auxiliary units occupied the site during the first century until in AD 92 the legio XXII Primigenia became the sole occupying legion. Under Domitian Mainz became the capital of Germania Superior although it did not attain municipal status until 355.16 The inscriptions from Mainz were first collectively published in a museum catalogue17 and in CIL XIII. The local journal, Mainzer Zeitschrift, publishes new finds and has produced some discussion of decor and monument types.18 The typology of the Mainz tombstones has been related to other examples from the Rhine and surrounding regions19 and also considered in studies of specific forms of military tombstones.20 However the most important contribution has come recently with the publications of Boppert in the Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani series (CSIR Deutschland II.5; CSIR Deutschland II.6). These volumes, a catalogue of the Mainz tombstones, incorporate epigraphic analysis, detailed descriptions and splendid plates. Yet, because within these volumes the emphasis falls on sculpture, undecorated and damaged tombstones with surviving epitaphs have been excluded. Thus even these volumes fail to be comprehensive. One of the chief ways by which the military, especially of the first century, left their mark on Mainz was through the memorials erected by soldiers to their deceased comrades. Monuments erected 16 17 18 19 20

Wells (1972), pp. 138–46; Selzer (1988), pp. 30–63. Becker (1875). Behrens (1949–50). Weynand (1902); Hofmann (1905); Schober (1923); Gablemann (1972). Schleiermacher (1984); Rinaldi Tufi (1988).

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to the civilian inhabitants of the town are also attested but these are comparatively rare and thus the local population does not seem to have extensively adopted the Roman custom of inscribing on stone.21 Indeed it has to be accepted that not every grave would have been indicated by a permanent marker. Tombstones may have been expensive acquisitions.22 For the soldier the tombstone may have been a more affordable prospect since he was in receipt of regular pay, and since there is evidence to support the existence of a burial club into which the serving soldier paid regular contributions.23 In addition special circumstances surrounded the soldier’s ability to compose a legally binding will.24 Some of the military epitaphs erected at Mainz refer to the will of the deceased (ex testamento), and these particular soldiers may have left instructions concerning their funeral and commemoration. Undoubtedly during the early history of the military camp soldiers dominated the population, with distinctions between soldiers and civilians and between Romans and non-Romans enforced by various methods including the erection of tombstones with their distinctive Latin epitaphs. The legion or military unit could function as a self-contained community, yet within that community there were divisions and an established hierarchy.25 The range of funerary monuments on which the epitaphs of the soldiers were inscribed was limited. There is some evidence of grandiose structures such as the suggested reconstruction of a tall aedicule-style memorial erected to two brothers who served in legio XIV Gemina.26 Another example is the remains of the so-called Eichelstein which has been interpreted as a round mausoleum possibly erected as a cenotaph to the Elder Drusus.27 However the 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

CSIR Deutschland II.6. Duncan-Jones (1982), pp. 79–80, 127–30. Vegetius II.20. Champlin (1991), p. 57. MacMullen (1984). Andrikopolou-Strack (1986), pp. 32–34; CSIR Deutschland II.5, no. 55. Frenz (1985).

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Figure 6.1: Tombstone of Gaius Iulius Andiccus of the Sixteenth Legion. The stele has a triangular gable decorated with a single rosette. At the base of the memorial is a roughly hewn area which would have been inserted into the ground. Photograph Landesmuseum Mainz (Inv. N. S 15).

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majority of surviving memorials discovered at Mainz take the form of funerary stelae; simple slabs of stone, rectangular in shape, which would have been inserted straight into the ground. Most of these stelae are decorated with simple sculptured designs, incorporating floral motifs, in the upper reaches. The stele which commemorated Gaius Iulius Andiccus, for example, had a triangular gable with a single central rosette (Figure 6.1). Similar stelae have rosettes encircled by leaves or further floral patterns contained within each spandrel. Such decor is integral to the design and overall effect of the memorial but in reality tells us little about the deceased. It is the epitaph which chiefly conveys the identity of the deceased both as an individual and as a soldier. For example: C(aius) IVLIVS C(ai) F(ilius) VOL(tinia tribu) ANDIC CVS MIL(es) LEG(ionis) XVI ANNO(rum) XLV STIP(endiorum) XXI H(ic) S(itus) E(st) HERES POS(uit). Gaius Julius Andiccus son of Gaius of the Voltinia tribe, soldier of the Sixteenth Legion, age 45, served 21 years, he lies here. The heir set this up. CIL XIII 6921; CSIR Deutschland II.5, no. 87

Inscriptions such as these contain standardised information. The epitaph of Gaius Iulius Andiccus (Figure 6.1) states his name, his rank, the unit in which he served, his age at death, the number of years for which he served and his unnamed heir and commemorator. In terms of design, appearance and content, the tombstones create an impression of uniformity which could be interpreted as a reflection of the regimented lifestyle of those commemorated and their commemorators.

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Figure 6.2: Tombstone of Andes of the ala Claudia. The relief depicts the enemy being trampled by the horse and about to be speared by the rider. To the rear of the horse stands an attendant with additional weapons. To the right of the inscription panel is a representation of a horn suggesting that the deceased was a tubicen. Photograph Landesmuseum Mainz (Inv. N. S 608).

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Picture tombstones

T

he overall impression of uniformity created by the memorials can be broken down in two ways: (1) the epitaph can say something unusual; (2) the sculpture could differ from the standard design. Rarely does the epitaph inspire much excitement. A few add exceptional details such as poems about grief, cruel fate or list the differing offices held by the deceased (for example, CSIR Deutschland II.5, no. 59 and no. 79). For some a record of their career structure must have suitably exemplified earthly success. It is the sculpture, however, which exhibits the greatest diversity. The floral designs could be elaborated by the addition of elements such as a dolphin, a head of Medusa, or depictions of weapons and military equipment (for examples see the plates in CSIR Deutschland II.5). The most elaborate designs involve portraiture of the deceased or the deceased represented in standardized activity scenes. The most detailed reliefs, and thus possibly the most expensive, are arguably those which depict men on horseback. These involve a rider seated upon a rearing horse often spearing a fallen enemy, sometimes with a groom or a slave standing at the rear of the horse holding additional spears and weapons (Figures 6.2 and 6.3). These reliefs are often very detailed yet they are repetitive and standardized and allow few opportunities for characteristic or individual features of the rider to be represented. Nevertheless the person seated upon the horse is intended to be interpreted as the deceased and the relief, as a whole, creates a strong visual impression. The inscriptions associated with these cavalrymen reliefs reveal that tombstones decorated in this way were always erected to members of the mounted auxiliary units but never to legionary horsemen.28 Auxiliary units are well attested at Mainz where 28 One possible exception at Mainz, suggested by Boppert (1992a), is a stele erected to a legionary which may have involved a cavalryman relief (CSIR Deutschland II.5, no. 39). However the extensive damage to the stele makes this particular interpretation problematic although such an association is not impossible (see note 4).

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Figure 6.3: Tombstone of Gaius Romanius Capito of the ala Noricorum. The rectangular stele is decorated, above the inscription panel, with a detailed relief of a horseman trampling and about to spear a fallen enemy. To the rear of the horse stands an attendant holding additional spears. Photograph Landesmuseum Mainz (Inv. N. S 607).

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they served alongside the resident legions. Auxiliary soldiers were recruited from provincials and the titles of the units in which they served often reflected the area from which the force was originally recruited. Some units of auxiliaries were associated with specialized skills such as archery. The tombstone of the soldier Maris of the ala Parthorum et Araborum depicts him on his horse with a bow and arrow in his hands (CSIR Deutschland II.5, no. 29). The auxiliary units consisted of mounted troops (alae) or foot soldiers (cohortes) or a combination of the two (cohortes). It is the mounted auxiliaries, men who fought on horseback, who repeatedly receive the elaborate cavalrymen stelae. There were important differences in backgrounds and roles between the auxiliary and legionary forces of the first century. The legionary was a Roman citizen, recruited from Italy or a highly Romanized area of the Empire. The auxiliary was a non-enfranchised provincial excluded from service in the legions. The auxiliary had to serve for longer than the legionary and may have received less pay than his legionary counterpart.29 From the emperor Claudius onwards the auxiliary soldier received citizenship on discharge.30 As a serving non-citizen the auxiliary could be regarded as more expendable in battle; Tacitus says that at the Battle of Mons Graupius Agricola placed auxiliary forces, probably including recently-recruited Britons, at the most vulnerable places in the line, since the victory would be so much the greater if no Roman blood was spilt.31 The Roman army was highly stratified with distinctions reinforced by privileges and wages. The cavalrymen may have been the elite among the auxiliary soldiers, since they appear to have received more pay than the foot soldier and may have received additional bonuses for the support of a groom.32 Yet even if an eques of an auxiliary ala 29 30 31 32

M. A. Speidel (1992); Alston (1994). Holder (1980), pp. 47–48. Tacitus, Agricola, 35 M. P. Speidel (1989).

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was as well paid as his legionary counterpart he remained his legal inferior.33 The status differences between legionaries and auxiliaries are expressed in their epitaphs not only through the identification of the unit in which the individual served but most strikingly through the nomenclature of those commemorated. The epitaph of a legionary (as above) can be compared with that of an auxiliary soldier (Figure 6.2): ANDES SEX(ti) F(ilius) CIVES RAETI NIO EQ(ues) ALA CLAVD(ia) AN(norum) XXX STIP(endiorum) V H(ic) S(itus) E(st) H(eres) F(aciendum) C(uravit) Andes son of Sextus, from Raetinum, horseman of the ala Claudia, aged 30, served five years, he lies here. The heir took care of the construction of the monument. CIL XIII 7023; CSIR Deutschland II.5, no. 35

The content of the auxiliary epitaph is parallel to that of the legionary: military unit, age at death and years of service are recorded by an anonymous commemorator. Nevertheless the differences between the legionary and auxiliary are signalled not only by the different types of units in which they served but also by differences in nomenclature. Gaius Iulius Andiccus has the tria nomina of the Roman citizen whereas Andes has the single name of the peregrinus; Andes is freeborn but he is not a Roman citizen.34 33 M. A. Speidel (1992); Alston (1994). 34 Caius Romanius Capito depicted in Figure 6.3 (CIL XIII 7029; CSIR Deutschland II.5, no. 31) was a member of the ala Noricorum who clearly has the tria nomina. He may have received citizenship as a special reward for distinguished service or is perhaps an officer whose rank has not been identified in the inscription. However it was not unheard of for freeborn Roman citizens to join the auxiliary units (Holder (1980), pp. 49–50).

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Despite these legal, social and possible economic disadvantages, it is the auxiliaries who repeatedly receive some of the most elaborate funerary memorials erected at Mainz, namely stelae decorated with these cavalry scenes. Similar designs are well attested along the Rhine and Danube frontier.35 Identifying the initial impetus of this decorative theme is problematic. The traditional prototype is regarded as Greek and is epitomized by the Athenian relief of Dexileos dating to 394 BC. This design may have influenced the Thracian Hero rider reliefs erected from the Hellenistic period onwards. However it has been argued that it is unlikely to have been Greeks or Thracians serving in the Roman army who introduced this pictorial theme to Roman tombstones. Schleiermacher’s comprehensive examination of the Roman cavalry reliefs indicates that the earliest examples are found in the Rhine area and were generally set up to men serving in units recruited in the west of the empire rather than the east.36 Thus it seems more probable that the design entered the military pictorial vocabulary through Rome and the western provinces. No cavalry scene stelae of an early date survive from Rome or Italy but Schleiermacher suggests that imperial triumphal reliefs including depictions of horsemen, for example, as located on the frieze from the Augustan temple to Apollo, may have been influential.37 These decorative reliefs were undoubtedly originally influenced by Greek forms but the creation of the Mainz Roman military stelae decorated with horsemen appears to have evolved through a western rather than an eastern intermediary.38 Whatever the origins of the design its social milieu is well defined. These cavalry reliefs are the mark or emblem of the auxiliary 35 Schleiermacher (1984) groups together the cavalry stelae by country of discovery; the greatest concentrations are found in Germany and Britain, but all the following also produce examples: Algeria, Bulgaria, France, Greece, Israel, Italy, Yugoslavia, Austria, Rumania, Switzerland, Spain, Turkey and Hungary. See also Gabelmann (1973). 36 Schleiermacher (1984); Mackintosh (1986, 1995). 37 Schleiermacher (1984), pp. 60–65; CSIR Deutschland II.5, p. 57. 38 Schleiermacher (1981), pp. 72–87; Schleiermacher (1984), pp. 61–62.

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Figure 6.4: Tombstone of Quintus Luccius Faustus of the Fourteenth Legion. Above the inscription panel is an ill-proportioned full-figure portrait of the deceased in military dress. He holds a shield in his left hand and a helmet is depicted above the left shoulder. In his right hand he supports the standard of his century which protrudes into the inscription panel. The inclusion of the standard indicates that the deceased was a signifer. Photograph Landesmuseum Mainz (Inv. N. S 609).

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cavalryman and represent him in a traditional heroic form. Only rarely are such designs associated with legionary horsemen. Schleiermacher has collected together all the known examples of this type of relief from the Roman world and the vast majority belong to auxiliary cavalrymen.39 The association between auxiliary horsemen and these scenes on one level is self-explanatory. These men worked with horses; their definition as a cavalryman was dependent on the horse and thus it is unsurprising that this type of depiction is so common amongst them. Proportionately fewer of the legionaries fought on horseback and thus for them the form was simply less appropriate. However when alternative portrait forms are explored the association between auxiliaries and cavalry reliefs takes on a potentially more complex relationship. If it was inappropriate for the majority of legionaries to be depicted as cavalrymen we might expect them to be depicted as foot soldiers. Yet the legionaries of Mainz rarely have tombstones which incorporate portraiture. A few legionary soldiers are depicted on their memorials by portrait busts (CSIR Deutschland II.5, nos. 22–24); head and shoulders pictures of the deceased which allow facial distinctions but few opportunities to exhibit weapons and military equipment. One portrait form which does incorporate military features is the full or half figure and this type is used to complement the epitaphs of some legionary soldiers (CSIR Deutschland II.5, nos. 1–2, 5, 7–8, 21). These designs are particularly frequent among tombstones set up to legionary principales—junior officers who had risen from the ranks with associated increases in status and income. An example is Quintus Luccius Faustus (CSIR Deutschland II.5, no. 7) who had become the signifer or standard-bearer of his century. He is depicted on his tombstone as a standing figure in military dress holding his standard (Figure 6.4). In fact it is only the presence of the latter which facilitates the identification of office as the epitaph describes the deceased simply as a miles; the image 39 The catalogue of Schleiermacher includes 134 items and only six of these were erected to legionaries. Admittedly 47 of the entries have no surviving inscriptions; nevertheless the six legionary examples represent only seven per cent of those cavalry reliefs which still have associated epitaphs.

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Figure 6.5: Tombstone of Genialis of the Cohors VII Raetorum. The deceased is identified as an imaginifer in his epitaph and is depicted in military dress holding the standard of his unit adorned with the portrait bust of the emperor.

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complements the text since the sculpture communicates information not contained in the inscription.40 Full- and half-figure depictions are also common among auxiliary soldiers especially those who were members of nonmounted units (CSIR Deutschland II.5, nos. 9, 12, 19, 20). Genialis, for example, was a standard bearer of his unit and is depicted holding the emblem of the emperor (Figure 6.5). Rinaldi Tufi has studied the reliefs of standing soldiers of the Rhine area and the examples collected mainly commemorate auxiliary rather than legionary soldiers.41 A comparison of the proportion of legionaries and auxiliaries receiving tombstones with portraits at Mainz—whether cavalry scenes, portrait busts or full- and halffigures—makes apparent that these types of memorials were most commonly erected to members of the auxiliary units (see Figures 6.6–6.7). The role of the auxiliary, whether as a horseman or a foot soldier, was depicted and emphasized through sculpture more often than that of the legionary. Similar associations between funerary portraiture and auxiliary soldiers can be established by briefly surveying material from other sites. Cologne was an important military base during the early first century and many military tombstones survive. There are only a few examples of full- and half-figure portrait types which commemorate soldiers at Cologne, but the standardized design, depicting the deceased reclining on a couch with attendants (Totenmahl), was commonplace.42 The sculptured Totenmahl originated in Greece where it often adorned funerary stelae. The depiction has been alternatively interpreted as a scene from life, a meal in the underworld or the 40 A similar example of the post of signifer being identified through picures rather than words is CSIR Deutschland II.5, no. 8. The tombstone of Andes (Figure 6.2) suggests him to be a tubicen by the inclusion of a trumpet in the sculptured design. 41 The catalogue of Rinaldi-Tufi includes 36 items: 21 of these have surviving inscriptions and these indicate that, of those receiving these memorials, seven (33 per cent) were legionaries and 14 (66 per cent) were auxiliaries. 42 Galsterer and Galsterer (1975).

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Figure 6.6: Table of Mainz military tombstones. Mainz military stelae divided by the types of unit (legion or auxilia) in which the deceased served and the nature of the sculptured decor. Figures are compiled using CSIR Deutschland II.5; fragmentary stelae and those where no epitaph survives have been excluded.

Legionary Stelae Auxiliary Stelae Total

Floral

Elaborate

Portraiture

Total

69 (61%) 11 (29%) 80

29 (26%) 3 (9%) 32

15 (13%) 24 (63%) 39

113 38 151

Floral = simple vegetal designs; Elaborate = more complex designs, for example, incorporating animals or equipment; Portraiture = depictions of the deceased whether in bust, half, full figure or cavalryman or Totenmahl.

Percentage 70

Legionary Auxiliary

60 50 40 30 20 10 0

Floral

Elaborate Type of Decoration

Figure 6.7: Graph of Mainz military tombstones.

Portraiture

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workings of tomb cult incorporating the heroization of the dead.43 In Roman Cologne the design was set up to a few legionaries but the majority of the examples were associated with auxiliary troops. A notable variation erected to members of auxiliary alae included the Totenmahl scene which was accompanied by a panel beneath the epitaph in which the horse and groom of the cavalryman were depicted (for example, Galsterer and Galsterer 1975, nos. 245, 246, 255, 256).44 The standardized deathbed or banquet scene is attested at Mainz where three auxiliaries were represented in this way on their tombstones (CSIR Deutschland II.5, nos. 51, 52, 53). One of these stelae, set up to Silius of the ala Picentia which was found to the south of Mainz, also had a panel beneath the inscription depicting a horse and groom. The Totenmahl stelae place emphasis on the deceased and, like the cavalry reliefs, capture the deceased in heroic aspect. The combination of the Totenmahl and the representation of the horse encompasses both heroic and status attributes which contributed to the identity of the deceased. A contrast to Cologne and Mainz is provided by PetronellCarnuntum, a Pannonian fort occupied by legions throughout its Roman history, which provides evidence of numerous tombstones set up to the deceased soldiers of the base. These tombstones are predominantly stelae often decorated with floral-based designs; portraiture is extremely rare (CSIR Osterreich I.3 and CSIR Osterreich I.4). There may have been differing regional influences in pictorial language between Germania and Pannonia, yet it seems probable that the low occurrence of portraiture and activity scenes adorning the memorials of the base is indicative of the lack of any permanent presence of auxiliary troops at Carnuntum.45 43 Dentzer (1982). 44 Parallels to the combination of Totenmahl and horse with rider/groom are found in Greece during the late Hellenisitc and early Imperial period; for example, Pfuhl and Möbius (1979) nos. 1287 and 1298. See also the tombstones erected to the equites singulares, Speidel (1994). 45 Krüger (1970, 1972). For auxiliary tombstones from Roman Britain, see Hope (1997b).

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The implication is that the tombstones of the auxiliaries used pictures to communicate more often than those of their legionary counterparts. The projection of an image of the deceased associated with symbols and attributes of status appears to have been particularly significant to members of auxiliary units. Thus these men are frequently depicted with horses, weapons, emblems of office and menial slaves and attendants. Even if the suitability of the association between the cavalryman and his depiction on horseback is accepted it is nevertheless striking that there is no parallel association between legionaries and depictions of foot soldiers. It is the auxiliary soldiers of Mainz who receive some of the most elaborate memorials surviving from the site; memorials which are distinguished by the pictures which adorn them; pictures which represent the deceased as a hero. By the use of the standardized design the cavalrymen create a very specific group identity. The epitaph associated with the design betrays their inferior status while the horse and groom, as emblems of success, seek to compensate for this. The epitaphs with the use of Latin and military terminology lay claim to their Romanization, although their names in the strictest sense define them as non-Romans; the pictures are unequivocal, depicting them as the champions of the Roman people. Ideally it would be desirable to take this analysis of the memorials a stage further and replace each tombstone within the cemetery. Were legionary and auxiliary burials separate? Were certain cemeteries or areas of cemeteries reserved for privileged burial? Unfortunately reconstructing the organization of the Mainz cemeteries is problematic. The location of the Roman cemeteries of Mainz is well established through the unearthing of numerous burial remains but rarely have monument and burial been excavated together.46 Many memorials were uncovered several centuries ago with inadequate recording of their precise location and circumstances of discovery. Others were found after reuse in the ancient and modern era. However sometimes the approximate area of discovery 46 Weidemann (1968), pp. 154–77; CSIR Deutschland II.5, pp. 10–27.

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can be asserted allowing a tombstone to be allocated to a specific cemetery or area of a cemetery, and occasionally groups of memorials have been discovered together. This has indicated that legionary and auxiliary burials were probably not separated but occurred alongside each other in the same cemeteries; chronology rather than social preference seems to have been the governing principle in cemetery organization at Mainz.47 A series of legions and auxiliary units occupied the site, and as one left the camp another entered: this coming and going is well represented in the cemeteries. The possibility that social distinctions found expression through aspects such as burial location and monument visibility cannot be altogether dismissed but the condition of the record precludes definite assertions. Through their memorials, at least, the auxiliary soldiers of Mainz were visually prominent; as individuals and as a group their monuments were differentiated from the mass of military tombstones which survive from the town. It is important to remember that funerary monuments are set up to and not by the dead. Ante mortem commemorations in which individuals anticipated death and erected their own memorial were commonplace in the Roman world but are not attested among the soldiers of Mainz. Presumably in an occupation which entailed potential sudden mobility and where risks to life were increased, anticipating death was highly impractical and unsuitable. The anonymous heirs and commemorators were most probably fellow soldiers, men who shared the experiences of an army lifestyle and a military identity. The tombstones of Mainz are the creations of the living and how the identity of an individual was constructed on the tombstone was not a random process but controlled by social conventions. So how do the patterns observed and the combination of words and pictures on the tombstones enhance or complement our knowledge about life in the military camp?

47 CSIR Deutschland II.5, pp. 10–12.

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Constructing an identity

T

he ways in which the funerary record is a medium reflective of the social structure and hierarchy is an issue of interest for anthropologists, archaeologists and historians.48 Such work, however, emphasizes that the burial record frequently does not reflect life in a simple or a direct way. We might expect, for example, that in a highly stratified society the leading and prominent figures would receive the most elaborate funerals and the best memorials. Indeed this can be the case, the funerary sphere becoming a medium for status display and competition, where roles portrayed in death reflect social position. However the association between the living and the dead is not always so straightforward; the dead can be susceptible to manipulation, ‘in death people become what they have not been in life’.49 Equally use of the funerary record, within a given society, rarely remains static. The changes which have occurred in British funerary behaviour over the last century are a good illustration of this. From a Victorian peak in using the funerary sphere as a medium to express status there has been a gradual decline in the celebration of death; elaborate and ostentatious behaviour was gradually abandoned by the upper classes becoming a feature instead of the lower classes, so that a study of Cambridge cemeteries of the 1970s revealed that the most prominent memorials were erected to gypsies; a group who are often financially successful but who live on the edges of society and acceptability.50 Mortuary practices can and do change across time and it has been suggested that they are controlled by cycles of display and restraint. Competitive display in the funerary sphere may lead to elaboration but also eventually there may be a counter-reaction of restraint.51 Independently of such ethno-archaeological studies parallel patterns 48 49 50 51

Chapman and Randsborg (1981); Morris (1987), pp. 29–43. Hodder (1982), p. 146. Parker-Pearson (1982). Cannon (1989).

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in mortuary behaviour have been identified in the Roman funerary sphere. Von Hesberg, for example, has undertaken detailed research on types of funerary monument and has noted continuous changes in style and use throughout the Roman period. The late Republic and Augustan era are categorized as the period of greatest display in the Roman funerary sphere, especially in Rome and Italy where large ornate individualizing memorials were created by the elite; after this peak of ostentation there was a gradual shift towards simpler communal types of memorial as epitomized by the house tomb and the columbarium.52 These observations concerning memorial use relate well to the work of Zanker and Kleiner who have both emphasized the association between freed slaves and portraiture during the late Republic and early empire.53 Freed slaves occupied a marginal position within Roman society; they could become wealthy and successful but they could not obtain high office or totally divorce themselves from the origins of their birth; they were stigmatized. As if to compensate for this, the freed slaves seem to view their memorials and portraits as a method of emphasizing the acquisition of Roman citizenship, depicting themselves dressed up as good Roman citizens should be and glorifying in the creation or establishment of a new legitimate family.54 These memorials are visually striking and date to a period when the elite, according to the model of von Hesberg, were redefining their behaviour in the funerary sphere. The funerary material from Mainz can be interpreted in a similar way. The memorials of the auxiliary soldiers of Mainz date to the middle and latter part of the first century, and they can in some ways be viewed as parallel to those of the freed slaves of Rome. The auxiliary soldiers were not born into slavery but nevertheless they could be interpreted as occupying a marginal position within both military society and Roman society at large. Members of the auxilia could be successful in the field, become honoured military heroes and in the process gain financial benefits. Indeed it has recently been argued that 52 von Hesberg (1992). 53 Zanker (1975); Kleiner (1977); Kleiner (1987). 54 Taylor (1961).

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there were, in fact, few real differences in pay and terms of service between legionary and auxiliary servicemen.55 Yet in Mainz during the first century the tombstones of the auxiliaries and the legionaries suggest that social differences between the two groups did exist. The auxiliary soldiers served alongside citizens, and probably shared a similar life style with the legionaries but they were not, until their discharge, actually Roman citizens. The tombstones with their detailed reliefs show the auxiliaries as the champions of the Roman people riding down the uncouth enemy. Thus it is ironic that the names and ethnicity of those commemorated reveal them frequently to be closer to the non-Roman than the Roman. The cavalry relief portrays the triumphant Roman opposite the humbled enemy. For the auxiliary horsemen the reliefs emphasize social mobility and the displacement of a native identity and its replacement with a Roman one. The words and pictures of the standardized design emphasize their claim to citizenship; a citizenship which their untimely death denied them.56 The funerary record of Mainz provides insights into life at the settlement. Mainz was a military community in which men lived and died together yet the tombstones reflect the inequalities inherent in military service. However these are not expressed in a blatant and simple way, since the use of the funerary record is more subtle than a basic reflection of the military hierarchy. The tombstones instead become a method of legitimation and exhibit a claim on a desired but denied legal status and identity by a marginal group. Yet it needs to be emphasized that such representations through the funerary record are short-lived. At Mainz few auxiliary tombstones, and none with portraiture, can be dated after the first century AD. This reflects, at least in part, the diminution of the importance of auxiliary troops in the settlement with the arrival of the legio XXII Primigenia. However evidence from varied military sites emphasizes how these forms of tombstones were predominantly erected during the first century.57 As time passed 55 Alston (1994), pp. 122–23. 56 Compare Meyer (1990) and also Woolf (1996). 57 Schleiermacher (1984), p. 12; Rinaldi-Tufi (1989), p. 10.

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and the distinctions between citizens and non-citizens, legionaries and auxiliaries became increasingly blurred, the relevance of the funerary record as method for legitimizing status and identity declined.58

Conclusion

I

t was the function of the tombstone to memorialize the dead; to preserve name and identity. The tombstones of Mainz achieve this by exploiting words and pictures. Text and image were both methods of communication neither of which existed in isolation; the message emitted involved these varied aspects working together. To look only at the inscriptions is to gain a partial picture of those commemorated. A comparison of an epitaph composed for a legionary with one composed for an auxiliary indicates similarity in the use of language and terminology. There are differences detectable in terms of legal status and units of service but it is only when these epitaphs are re-associated with their relevant tombstones that the full impact of the perceived social differences can be appreciated. Each tombstone tells a story and within the cemetery the tombstones are united to tell a wider story still. The funerary monuments are thus a method for accessing the living society. Yet the insight gained is not always a direct reflection of that society. The tombstones are persuasive in the image they present of the world; they may not lie but they do make claims on status, wealth and position which cannot always be sustained. The funerary monuments reflect not the realities of Roman society but the rhetoric of language and images through which that society was constructed.59 58 Meyer (1990); Woolf (1996). 59 This chapter is the result of a paper given at a colloqium entitled ‘Epitaphs: Problems and Prospects’ held in Liverpool in January 1995. I would like to thank those present for comments and suggestions on the material discussed. I would also like to thank Professor M. Fulford, Dr G. Oliver, Dr T. Rajak, Professor A. Wallace-Hadrill and Dr G. Woolf for their advice and comments in preparing this chapter. Any errors, however, remain my own.

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Rinaldi Tufi, S. (1988), Militari Romani sul Reno. L’iconografia degli stehende soldaten nelle funerarie del I secolo DC, Rome. Saller, R. (1994), Patriarchy, Property and death in the Roman Family, Cambridge. Saller, R. and B. Shaw (1984), ‘Tombstones and Roman Family Relations in the Principate: Civilians, Soldiers and Slaves’, JRS 74, pp. 124–56. Schleiermacher, M. (1981), ‘Zu Ikonographie und Herleitung des Reitermotivs auf römischen Grabsteinen’, Boreas 4, pp. 61–96. Schleiermacher, M. (1984), Römische Reiter Grabsteine, Bonn. Schober, A. (1923), Die römischen Grabsteine von Noricum und Pannonien, Vienna. Selzer, W. (1988), Römische Steindenkmaler: Mainz in römischer Zeit, Mainz. Shaw, B. (1984), ‘Latin Funerary Epigraphy and Family Life in the Later Roman Empire’, Historia 33, pp. 457–99. Speidel, M. A. (1992), ‘Roman Army Pay Scales’, JRS 82, pp. 87–106. Speidel, M. P. (1989), ‘The Soldier’s Servants’, AncSoc 20, pp. 239–47. Speidel, M. P. (1994), Die Denkmäler der Kaiserreiter. Equites Singulares Augusti, Cologne. Taylor, L. R. (1961), ‘Freedmen and Freeborn in the epitaphs of Imperial Rome’, AJP 82, pp. 113–32. Toynbee, J. M. C. and J. Ward-Perkins (1956), The Shrine of St. Peter and the Vatican Excavations, London. Van Gennep, A. (1960), The Rites of Passage, London. Originally published as Les rites de passage, Paris, 1909. Weidemann, K. (1968), ‘Die Topographie von Mainz in der Römerzeit und dem frühen Mittelalter’, JRGZM 15, pp. 154–77. Wells, C. (1972), The German Policy of Augustus, Oxford. Weynand, R. (1902), ‘Form und dekoration der römischen Grabsteine der Rheinlande im ersten Jahrhundert’, BJb 108–09, pp. 185–238. Woolf, G. (1996), ‘Monumental writing and the expansion of Roman society in the early Roman empire’, JRS 86, pp. 22–39. Zanker, P. (1975), ‘Grabreliefs römischer Freigelassener’, JdI 90, pp. 267–315.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Inscriptions on the Ash Chests of the Ince Blundell Hall Collection: Ancient and Modern Glenys Davies Introduction

H

undreds, if not thousands, of ash chests made in Rome in the first to third centuries AD have survived and are scattered in collections throughout the world. These marble containers are usually quite highly decorated in relief, and have in a central position on the front a panel inscribed with basic information about the person whose ashes were placed inside. Many of these inscriptions have been known for a long time, as they were included in manuscript and printed collections of inscriptions, and ultimately in CIL VI, though often with little or no reference to the object on which they were placed. In this disembodied form they have been used in studies of Roman nomenclature, demography and other aspects of Roman society (see, for example, Chapter Five above). But it is also important to consider the whole monument and not just the text on the page. Ash chests have been overlooked for a long time, a situation partly remedied by Friederike Sinn’s major study

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(Sinn 1987) which has made a very valuable start to the process of cataloguing, analyzing and above all dating these monuments. However, not all ash chest inscriptions—or indeed ash chests—are what they seem, as emerges from a study of a small group collected by Henry Blundell of Ince Blundell Hall, Lancashire, in the late eighteenth century.1 Henry Blundell’s collection today contains 52 chests of which all but one have inscriptions. Blundell acquired his ash chests mainly from Rome through sculptor-dealers such as Lisandroni and d’Este, and the majority came from the collection of the Mattei family which was at the time being sold off. They had been in this Italian collection for some time before they were sold to Blundell, and did not come directly to him from Roman tombs. There had been plenty of opportunity for them to be tampered with, and in particular for inscriptions to be added to them, both while they were in the Mattei collection, and at the point of sale to Blundell (which was in the 1780s and 1790s). Some whole pieces appear to have been manufactured in modern times—they could perhaps be called fakes, but this implies a deliberate attempt by the maker to deceive, and we cannot be sure of the intentions of the sculptor-restorers who made them. The same applies to modern inscriptions. An interesting question raised by this collection is not just whether we can distinguish modern from ancient inscriptions, but whether the ‘modern’ inscriptions can themselves be dated to specific periods. Many of the inscriptions were published in the later seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, especially in the collections of inscriptions made by Fabretti (1699), Gude (1731) and Muratori (1740). Some were cited earlier still in unpublished manuscripts: Gude, for example, collected the inscriptions in the 1660s, long before they were eventually published. The Mattei collection itself was also 1

I am in the process of preparing a catalogue of the ash chests (to be published by Liverpool University Press). For the history of the Ince Blundell collection see Fejfer and Southworth (1991), introduction, and Southworth (1991).

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published in an eighteenth-century catalogue Monumenta Mattheiana. Volume III, which contains the ash chests, came out in 1778, but by then much of the collection was already dispersed. This catalogue was illustrated with engravings of many of the ash chests now in Blundell’s collection. The Ince Blundell collection was also listed by Michaelis, and most of the inscriptions are in CIL VI.2 Both Michaelis and the compilers of CIL attempt to distinguish between ‘genuine’ and ‘spurious’ (i.e. modern) inscriptions, but these judgements are not necessarily made from personal observation of the ash chest in question. Inclusion in an early publication does not in itself prove an inscription is ancient (as we shall see), though absence from such works may lead one to suspect more recent manufacture. I am not an epigraphist by training, and before I started cataloguing the funerary monuments from the Ince Blundell collection my main interest in ash chests was in their decoration.3 The inscription was useful in that it gave a name to the person whose ashes were inside, and it might also provide some useful (if limited) biographical and sociological information and point to an approximate date. I had not considered in any detail whether the inscriptions were ‘genuine’ or not, or indeed how one might tell whether they were genuine. This has, however, become a major issue in studying the Ince Blundell ash chests, as a considerable proportion of the inscriptions would appear to be modern. In this paper I shall consider the criteria for distinguishing between the ancient and the modern inscriptions in this collection, and will also attempt to put this small-scale study into a wider perspective. I shall start with a group of inscriptions that seem to me to be ancient, followed by a group that appear to be modern, and then some more problematic examples.

2 3

Michaelis (1882). See Davies (1978).

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Inscriptions and their authenticity

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illustrate here four examples of what I consider to be genuinely ancient inscriptions (Figures 7.1–7.4): in no case is there any reason to doubt their authenticity. It is immediately noticeable that although the four inscriptions follow the same basic layout and conventions, the style, as seen in the letter-forms and the overall appearance of the inscription, varies quite a bit, as does the competence of the stonecutter. Here we have only a very small sample, all dating, probably, to the second half of the first century AD. Ash chests were made from Augustan times to well into the third century AD, but the majority date to the second half of the first and early second centuries AD. There were presumably stylistic changes over time in the inscriptions as in the other decoration, but it seems there was also quite considerable variation even for contemporary pieces. It should perhaps be possible, given the number of surviving ash chests from the city of Rome, to recognize general stylistic trends and to identify some individual hands, both in the decoration and in the inscriptions.4 This could be a fruitful area for future research. The Ince Blundell inscriptions represent quite a range of inscription styles (the examples illustrated here inevitably give a very limited idea of this), and this raises questions of how their stylistic features should be described and analyzed, and what are the most significant things to look for. On the grounds of its decoration and artistic style, I would date the ash chest of Q. Curiatius Zosimus (Figure 7.1) to the mid-first century AD.5 The inscription I would describe as ‘rather scruffy’. It is legible enough, but the letters are rather crude and inelegant. The positioning of the inscription in the field is not very well thought 4 5

A start has been made on this by Sinn (1987), see especially ch. 2, and also Manacorda (1979–80). Gude (1731), p. 319, no. 2; Muratori (1740), p. 1665, no. 4; Mon. Matth. III, p. 164, no. 11; Blundell (1803), pp. 116–17, no. 352; Michaelis (1882), p. 404, no. 317; CIL VI 16625; Sinn (1987), p. 111, no. 81 (dates it to the reign of Claudius or a little later). D M S/ Q. CVRIATI/ ZOSIMI.

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out, and some of the letters are larger than others. Characteristic of individual letters is that the ‘S’ slopes forward, and the ‘Q’ has a rigid tail. But how significant are such observations? The letters in the inscription of C. Iulius Hirmaiscus (Figure 7.2)6 do not give such a scruffy impression, but in fact this inscription too is rather poorly arranged in the panel. The stonecutter has taken up too much space for the first few letters in each line, and has had to squash in the last ones. He has also tried to make some of the individual letters fancier or more elegant, e.g. by using gently curving strokes (see the ‘V’s in lines 1 and 3). This is probably a slightly later ash chest, Neronian rather than Claudian: despite the rather different general appearance of the two inscriptions the letter-forms are broadly similar, but the two inscriptions are presumably not by the same hand. A rather more even spacing, both of lines within the panel and of letters within lines, is achieved in the inscription to T. Flavius Eutyches (Figure 7.3).7 Both here and in the fourth example, the double ash chest of L. Manlius Philargyrus (Figure 7.4),8 the stonecutter has had 6

7

8

Gude (1731), p. 323, no. 2; Muratori (1740), p. 1695, no. 3; Mon. Matth. III, pl. 71:2 and p. 162; Blundell (1803), p. 119, no. 358; Michaelis (1882), p. 403, no. 312; CIL VI 20052. Exported by Lisandroni and d’Este in 1789. C. IVLIVS/ HIRMAISCVS/ VIXIT.ANN.XXI Fabretti (1699), p. 46, no. 203; Mon. Matth. III, pl. 68:6 and p. 134; Blundell (1803), p. 130, no. 381; Michaelis (1882), p. 405, no. 325; CIL VI 18059; Manacorda (1982), p. 725; Sinn (1987), p. 152, no. 243 pl. 45:a. Exported by Ios. del Prato in 1789. Sinn gives the cognomen as Eutychas, and dates the ash chest post AD 69 (Flavian). DIS MANIB/ T. FLAVI.SP.F/ EVTYCHE/ VIX.ANN.V.M.V/ D.XXIX.FEC/ FLAVIA.PELORIS.MATER. Gude (1731), p. 78, no. 11; Muratori (1740), p. 1362, no. 6; Mon. Matth. III, pl. 71:1 and p. 146, no. 36; Blundell (1803), p. 115, no. 349; Michaelis (1882), p. 409, no. 355; CIL VI 21949. left: D.M./ L.MANLIO./ PHILARGYRO/FEC.LARCIA.RVFI/ NA.CONIVGI.SVO/ B.M.V.A XXXXV.ET.SIBI right: D.M./ LARCIA.RVF/ INA.CONIV/ GI.SVA.B.M. The right-hand inscription does not appear to make grammatical sense, and is redundant as Larcia Rufina is already mentioned in the first inscription. Possibly the right-hand inscription was added later, on the death of Larcia Rufina. It could alternatively be a modern addition, but if so the style has been very skilfully matched to that of the left-hand inscription.

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Figure 7.1: Ash chest of Q. Curiatius Zosimus.

Figure 7.2: Ash chest of C. Iulius Hirmaiscus.

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Figure 7.3: Ash chest of T. Flavius Eutyches.

Figure 7.4: Double ash chest of L. Manlius Philargyrus and Larcia Rufina.

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to include rather more information and so the inscription appears more cramped and congested. The tendency is to place lines closer together and to use more squat letters with broader strokes, but even so there is some attempt to add flourishes to the letters—see the ‘Y’ in both cases, and the curled ‘G’ in both of the inscriptions on the double ash chest. The date of the ash chest of Eutyches is probably Flavian (but see below for further discussion of this). The date of the ash chest of Manlius Philargyrus is difficult to assess except within broad limits, as there is little decoration and such plain pieces are difficult to date. It probably belongs to the second half of the first century AD and thus may be roughly contemporary with the ash chest of Flavius Eutyches: their inscription styles do also have something in common. Also illustrated here are three examples of inscriptions which would appear to be modern (Figures 7.5–7.7). In the case of the ash chest of Euphrosyne (Figures 7.5 and 7.5A),9 the chest is heavily restored, and the inscription appears in the restored part. Although the back and the sides of the chest are intact, the front has broken along the line of the garland so that large portions of the corner rams’ heads, the whole of the inscription, and the large moth (which has no parallels on Roman ash chests) are all restored. Quite apart from this, the content and style of the inscription also differ from other ‘genuine’ inscriptions. Formulae such as ‘have et vale’ and ‘posuit infelix’ are not generally used on such inscriptions, as the Romans did not usually go in for literary flourishes or expressions of sentiment in the ash chest inscriptions: they tended to stick to the facts and a few common formulaic phrases. This inscription appears rather to have been made up by the modern sculptor, not copied from elsewhere. Also the letter-style of the inscription is shared by several others in the Ince Blundell collection which would appear to be modern. The inscription is in fact well 9

Blundell (1803), p. 116, no. 351; Michaelis (1882), p. 404, no. 315. D M/ HAVE EVPHROSYNE/ ET VALE/ AEMILIA CANTRIA/ FILIAE DVLCISSIMAE/ POSVIT INFELIX.

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placed in the panel, the lines being carefully centred, with the width and height of the letters being made very even. The letterforms are quite simple, without elaborate flourishes, although small serifs are used. Individual letters do not tend to have noticeable characteristics, though note the form of the ‘M’ whose middle strokes come together half way down the letter, and the rather tall, narrow ‘S’. A very similar form of lettering can be seen in the inscription naming Rutilia Romana on another ash chest (Figure 7.6).10 Here there has been apparently no attempt to restore the rather weathered decoration of the chest, and the modern inscription has been carved on top of the rough surface of the inscription panel without smoothing it off first: it is possible to make out some traces of the original inscription below. (This clearly began ‘D M S’, but apart from that only isolated letters can be made out at the ends of the lines.) Here, too, the inscription is carefully centred in the panel. This text also uses an unusual formula, as the use of ‘animae’ in this way is not common on ash chest inscriptions: nevertheless this text appears to have been copied from the inscription on a marble plaque (presumably genuine) now in the Vatican Museums.11 The style of the inscription, and the forms of the letters, are sufficiently like those on the ash chest of Euphrosyne to suggest that the same modern restorer was responsible for both. Both ash chests are unprovenanced: not only do we not know where they were found (which is true of all the ash chests in the Ince Blundell collection), we also do not know where Blundell acquired them. They do not appear to have come from the Mattei collection. Various other ash chests in the Ince Blundell collection have inscriptions in a very similar style, and these too would appear to 10 Blundell (1803), pp. 121–22, no. 364; Michaelis (1882), p. 406, no. 333; CIL VI 25679 (entry is for the inscription this is copied from, but also gives references to the Ince ash chest). D. M/ RVTILIA/ ROMANA/ ANIMAE/ BENEMERENTI. 11 CIL VI 25679—on a marble tablet in the Galleria Lapidaria of the Vatican Museums.

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Figure 7.5: Ash chest of Euphrosyne.

Figure 7.5A: Detail of the inscription on the ash chest of Euphorsyne.

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Figure 7.6: Inscription on the ash chest of Rutilia Romana.

Figure 7.7: Ash chest of Hermes (dedicated by A. Plautius Gallus).

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be modern. The ash chest of Severina Procilla12 suffered the same fate as that of Euphrosyne: the front has broken along the line of the garland, and the inscription is on the restored part of the monument. This was originally a double ash chest, presumably with two inscription panels, but has been restored with a single large inscription panel. The inscription is characterized by a well-centred layout and even, rather plain lettering, with the characteristic shape of the ‘M’ and the narrow, slightly sloping ‘S’ noted above. It also includes an unusual formula, this time ‘ossa hic sita sunt’. Again the chest is unprovenanced, and the inscription is not recorded in CIL, nor in any publication before the early nineteenth-century catalogues of the Ince Blundell collection. A similar style of inscription can be seen on the ash chest of Calidia Ursilia and Telesphorus Primitivus,13 where again there is evidence that the inscription is a modern addition. Here the whole of the surface of the central part of the front (which presumably did originally have an inscription) has been carefully cut back and smoothed off to hold the new inscription, resulting in a slightly concave surface. In this case the two inscriptions are included in CIL with a note that Lisandroni and d’Este, the Italian agents and sculptor-restorers who exported the chest, were doubtful of the inscription’s authenticity.14 This is interesting because it implies that Lisandroni and d’Este were not themselves responsible for the new inscription—or is this double bluff? This ash chest was illustrated in 12 Blundell (1803), p. 127, no. 375; Michaelis (1882), p. 408, no. 352. SEVERINAE PROCILLAE/ OSSA HIC SITA SVNT/ L. SEVERINVS L.F. MATRI FECIT. 13 Mon. Math. III, pl. 73:1 (without an inscription); Blundell (1803), p. 134, no. 389; Michaelis (1882), p. 408, no. 346; CIL VI 14073. left: D M/ CALIDIAE VRSILIAE/ V.A.XXXII.M.VI.D.X/ L. CALIDIVS BVCVLVS/ LIBERTAE PIENTISSIMAE/ ET INCOMPARABILI/ FECIT. right: D M /TELESPHORI PRIMITIVI/ VIXIT AN. VIIII MEN.III/ DIEBVS.XVI.HORIS X/ POSVIT ONESIMVS/ PATER. 14 CIL VI 14073: ‘Urnula. Roma exportandam curaverunt Lisandroni et d’Este sculptores’, and ‘Urna num antiqua sit, dubitaverunt ipsi qui exportarunt; quod si ita est, tituli recenti aetate ad archetypa antiqua nunc deperdita videntur incisi esse’.

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Monumenta Mattheiana III (1778) without any inscription in the panel (which appears blank), which may imply that the ‘new’ inscription was added sometime between leaving the Mattei collection and its arrival at Ince. In this case we do not know the exact date of export, but most of the ash chests Blundell acquired from Lisandroni and d’Este were sent from Italy in 1789 or 1791. On the ash chest of Claudius Rufus15 the restoration (presumably modern) seems to have involved the laborious process of cutting away the old surface of the inscription panel and inserting a new marble tablet. Despite this, the inscription is accepted as genuine in CIL. In three cases (the ash chests of Acellius, Julia Meroe and Ellius Rufus) the ash chest in question is illustrated in Monumenta Mattheiana III with a blank inscription panel, which suggests that the inscription was added subsequently. However this is not incontrovertible evidence. As I have shown elsewhere and as we shall see below, mistakes were made in matching inscriptions to chests in the Monumenta Mattheiana plates.16 The Acellius inscription17 is not included in CIL, and like some of those cited above includes an unusual phrase (‘cum lacrimis’); moreover, the name Acellius is not attested in CIL VI. The inscription to Julia Meroe, on the other hand, is included in CIL without any suggestion that it might be modern.18 The Ellius Rufus inscription19 includes some odd, not to say unlikely, elements: 15 Mon. Matth. III, pl. 58:2 (with only DM in the panel); Blundell (1803), p. 117, no. 354; Michaelis (1882), p. 279, no. 236; CIL VI 15245. D M/ CLAVDI RVFI/ V.A.XXX.DI.II. 16 See Davies (1990): the most likely explanation for several anomalies in the Monumenta Mattheiana plates is that the appearance of the ash chests and their inscriptions were recorded separately, and mistakes were made when matching the script to the image in the production of the plates. 17 Mon. Matth. III, pl. 71:6 (without inscription); Blundell (1803), pp. 125–26, no. 372; Michaelis (1882), p. 378, no. 230. D M/ ACELLIO.Q.V.AN.XII.M.III/ ACELLIVS.PATER.FILIO/ CARISSIMO. B.M.POS/ CVM.LACRIMIS. 18 Mon. Matth. III, pl. 65:6 (without inscription); Blundell (1803), p. 122–23, no. 366; Michaelis (1882), p. 406, no. 334; CIL VI 20567. D M/ IVLIAE MEROE/ CONIVGI/ RARISSIMAE/ Q.V.AN.XXV.M.II. D.XI/ RVFINVS.L.F/ FEC.B.M 19 Mon. Math. III, pl. 69:5 (without inscription); Blundell (1803), p. 120, no. 361;

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it is omitted from CIL, and is described as ‘spurious’ by Michaelis. Two further examples in this group are the ash chests of Cornelia Staphyle and Antonia Gemella. The ash chest which today has an inscription naming Cornelia Staphyle20 bears a different inscription entirely in the Monumenta Mattheiana engraving: there is no sign that an old inscription has been erased, so the inscription recorded in Monumenta Mattheiana may simply be one of the numerous cases of mistaken matching up of chest and inscription in the engravings. The style of the lettering, however, suggests that the Cornelia Staphyle inscription belongs to the ‘modern’ group, and CIL identifies it as copied and adapted (by adding the meaningless ‘BEN’ at the end) from a marble vase in the Vatican. Similarly, the Antonia Gemella inscription21 appears to have been copied from a tombstone from Rome (but now in Wroxeter Museum).22 In the above group of ‘modern’ inscriptions which share a common lettering style there are 10 ash chests, six of them from the Mattei collection. Most of the inscriptions appear to have been made up by the restorer, who has a liking for sentimental phrases not commonly used in ‘genuine’ inscriptions, but some were copied from other monuments in Rome. The same restorer may have been Michaelis (1882), p. 403, no. 314. ELLIO.RVFO/ S.L. HABRA. FECIT/ ET.SIBI.ET.SVIS/ SEMPRONIA SEPRONIVS/ P.L.AVGE O.L. VRBANVS (the last two lines are meant to be read in two columns: Sempronia P. L. Auge and Sepronius (sic) O. L. Urbanus). 20 Mon. Math. III, pl. 68:2 (with a different inscription, to a Fabia Felicula); Blundell (1803), p. 118, no. 357; Michaelis (1882), p. 405, no. 327. D M/ CORNELIA.L.LIB/ STAPHYLE/ BEN. CIL VI 16458 records this as a modern inscription copied from a marble vase in the Galleria Lapidaria of the Vatican Museums whose inscription reads: (c)ORNELIA.L.L/ STAPHYLE. 21 Blundell (1803), p. 131, no. 382; Michaelis (1882), p. 407, no. 342; CIL VI 12048. According to CIL the chest was exported by Lisandroni and d’Este in 1791. D.M/ ANTONIAE/ GEMELLAE/ DIADVMENVS/ PIENTISSIMAE/ FECIT/ VIXIT.ANNIS.XXXIII. 22 CIL VII 159 (included in vol. VII because the tombstone was once thought to have been found in Britain). RIB I 2325 (p. 731) suggests that in fact it came from Italy. The text is identical to the inscription on the Ince urn, but it is differently divided up into lines.

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responsible for all of them (though some—such as that of Ellius Rufus—show characteristics that may suggest they are not by the same hand).23 The most likely time for them to have acquired their new inscriptions is after leaving the Mattei (or another) collection, but before they were sold to Henry Blundell. The inscription on another ash chest illustrated here (Figure 7.7), dedicated to Hermes by A. Plautius Gallus,24 would also appear to belong to this group, but in this case it was not just a matter of adding an inscription: rather the whole chest appears to be a fake. It might seem likely that the chest and the inscription would have been faked at the same time, but this is not necessarily so. The ash chest is illustrated in Monumenta Mattheiana III, pl. 73:6 (Figure 7.8), but it appears there with the wrong inscription: in fact the inscription shown there should have been put on the ash chest next to it, which instead is shown with only ‘D M’ in the panel.25 The Hermes inscription is not recorded anywhere in the Monumenta Mattheiana plates or text, but it is accepted without question by both Michaelis and CIL. The style of the decoration of this ash chest is very odd, and it is almost certainly a modern creation, though clearly one made before the Monumenta Mattheiana plates were engraved. Was the inscription also created before 1778, and mistakenly omitted from the Monumenta Mattheiana catalogue, or was the inscription added later, making this a modern piece made in two phases? If so, the very un-Roman, low-relief butterflies at the lower front corners, 23 The text of the Ellius Rufus inscription is not very convincing and its arrangement in the field is not as carefully thought out as for the other inscriptions; in addition, elongated letters are used. On the other hand, it does share some characteristic individual letter-forms with some of the inscriptions in this group. 24 Mon. Matth. III, pl. 73:6 (with a different inscription); Blundell (1803), pp. 128–29, no. 378; Michaelis (1882), p. 407, no. 339; CIL VI 24271. D. M./ A.PLAVTIVS.GALLVS/ HERMETI.LIB/ VIX.AN.XLI.M.IIII 25 Fabretti (1699), p. 705, no. 261; Muratori 1740, p. 1002, no. 7; Mon. Matth. III, pl. 73:6 (inscription), pl. 73:5 (chest) and p. 156; Blundell (1803), p. 125, no. 371; Michaelis (1882), p. 405, no. 323; CIL VI 18257. Exported by Ios. del Prato in 1789. D.M/ T FLAVI AVG LIB/ ZMARAGDI.

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Figure 7.8: Monumenta Mattheiana III, pl. 73:6 and 5: ash chests of Hermes (left) and T. Flavius Zmaragdus (right) illustrated with the wrong inscriptions.

Figure 7.9: Ash chest of Fulvanus.

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also omitted from the Monumenta Mattheiana engraving, may also have been added in this second phase. It is tempting to accept the latter scenario, as it would then put the inscription, whose style belongs with the ‘modern’ group considered above, in the post-1778 period, when the others appear to have been carved. As the above discussion has shown, there are various reasons for thinking that an inscription is a modern addition to a monument. The section of the ash chest containing the inscription may have been restored, or the whole monument may appear modern; there may be evidence that the inscription panel was once blank, or had a different inscription; and the inscription may have been copied from another monument (though there is then, of course, the question of which is the copy and which the original). Further clues may be the use of a particular lettering style which appears to characterize a group of modern inscriptions, or an inscription that does not make sense or is grammatically incorrect (though this is not decisive, as some perfectly genuine inscriptions are defective in this respect). Two further modern inscriptions in the Ince Blundell collection should be mentioned here: their style is not quite the same as that of the ‘modern’ group identified above, but the inscriptions are clearly copied from other monuments, and in fact are copied inaccurately. The first is an inscription which names a ‘M. Rufrius Phlapfiphus’.26 It was copied from a tablet in Florence which gave the name ‘M. Rufrius Philadelphus’. The cognomen was so highly ligatured in the original that it was mis-read by the copyist (who also uses ligature to squash the name into the space available). This inscription is on an ash chest which does not itself look very Roman, and it would seem the whole monument is modern, but nevertheless an engraving of 26 Mon. Matth. III, pl. 68:3 (with inscription to Laflius Primigenius) and p. 149; Blundell (1803), p. 134, no. 390; Michaelis (1882), p. 408, no. 350; CIL VI 25579 (the entry is for the inscription in Florence from which this is copied, but also mentions the Ince version as a copy, and gives references). Muratori (1740), p. 1598, no. 11 gives the Florence version, but confusingly places it in the Mattei collection. D M/ M.RVFRIVS.M.L.PHLAPFIPHVS/ RVFIA. M.L.IVCVN SOROR/ ARGVNDI

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Figure 7.10: Monumenta Mattheiana III, pl. 65:1: ash chest of Lappia Prima illustrated with inscription to Fulvanus.

Figure 7.11: Ash chest of Lappia Prima.

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the chest, with its inscription, appears in Monumenta Mattheiana III. Presumably although modern it was made before 1778, earlier than the ‘modern’ group defined above. The ash chest of Rubria Prima also has an inscription that appears to have been inaccurately copied, this time from a marble plaque from a columbarium.27 Again, both the ash chest and the inscription are recorded in Monumenta Mattheiana III, suggesting that the inscription was carved before 1778: indeed, this inaccurate version of the inscription appears in earlier records,28 suggesting either that this monument had acquired its inscription by the late seventeenth century, or that it was copied from an inaccurate recording of the original. These two ash chests suggest that copying inscriptions, even ‘faking’ whole monuments, occurred before the sale of the Mattei collection as well as afterwards. With a number of other inscriptions it is in fact quite difficult to be certain whether or not they are genuinely ancient. The ash chest of Fulvanus (Figure 7.9) is one example.29 This ash chest, decorated with eagles supporting a garland, is illustrated in Monumenta Mattheiana III with a blank inscription panel, though the inscription is recorded elsewhere in the same volume: it appears in the panel of the illustration of the ash chest which today has an inscription to Lappia Prima (Figure 7.10). It is highly likely that at the time the plates were produced this inscription was in fact on the chest it is on today, and the Monumenta Mattheiana illustration 27 Mon. Math. III, pl. 73:3 and p. 163, no. 6; Blundell (1803), p. 135, no. 391; Michaelis (1882), p. 407, no. 343; CIL VI 25548 (the entry is for the columbarium tablet from which the inscription at Ince was copied, but also mentions the Ince version as a copy). RVBRIA.PRIMA/ ALBANIESIS/ P.RVBRIVS.REV ILIS/ AMICE. HAVE.ET/ VALE.EGO HIC/ SITVS SVM. 28 CIL VI 25548 gives early (MS) references. Fabretti (1699), p. 122, no. 20. The original in line 3 reads ‘P.RVBRIVS.P.L. VTILIS’, which makes rather more sense than the copy. 29 Gude (1731), p. 328, no. 8; Muratori (1740), p. 1,779, no. 24; Mon. Math. III, pl. 69:1 (without inscription) and pl. 65:1 (inscription on the chest which now has the inscription to Lappia Prima); Blundell (1803), pp. 138–39, no. 398; Michaelis (1882), p. 405, no. 328. DIS.MANIBVS/ FVLVANO. ARCII.

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is to be explained by careless matching up of inscriptions and ash chests when the plates were compiled. The Fulvanus inscription was recorded by both Muratori and Gude (who describes it as being ‘Romae in hortis Coelimontanis’—i.e. in the Mattei collection). We cannot be sure that they saw the inscription on this chest, but that is highly likely, and if so the inscription was on the chest at least by 1731.30 The final word of the inscription appears to read ARCII, though some have read it as ARCH. The name Fulvanus is not attested in CIL VI, nor is Arcius, and it has been suggested that ‘Arch’ is an abbreviation for ‘Architectus’. The inscription is not included in CIL VI, and is described as ‘spurious’ by Michaelis, but if it is a forgery it is, again, an early one. Similar problems are posed by the ash chests of Lappia Prima, Livia and Laflius (sic) Primigenius. The ash chest which today has an inscription to Lappia Prima31 (Figure 7.11) is illustrated in Monumenta Mattheiana III, but with the inscription to Fulvanus (Figure 7.10), whereas the Lappia Prima inscription appears on the illustration of another chest (which in reality has an inscription to Antonius Felix). But the confusion does not end there. The Lappia Prima inscription was recorded by Gude, who locates it in the Mattei gardens on the Caelian, but he cites it as the second inscription of a pair, as if it were on a double ash chest. He also records on another page another inscription to Lappia Prima, similar in content but not identical and differently laid out, which he locates in the Giustiniani gardens.32 According to the entry in CIL VI the inscription on the Ince Blundell ash chest is the original one, and a copy of this was placed on the Giustiniani cippus (which is now in the Vatican 30 As Gude collected his inscriptions in the 1660s this inscription may already have been on this ash chest by then. 31 Gude (1731), p. 320, no. 19; Mon. Math. III, pl. 65:1 (chest); pl. 68:1 and p. 135 (inscription); Blundell (1803), p. 138, no. 397; Michaelis (1882), p. 379, no. 235; CIL VI 21093. D M/ LAPPIAE.PRIMAE.F/ [vi]X.A. XXXXIII. The ash chest was exported by Lisandroni and d’Este in 1789. 32 Gude (1731), p. 320, no. 19 (inscription as in note 30 above, twinned with the inscription: GEMINI.FL/ TONSO/ GEMELLI) and p. 306, no. 12 (‘in hortis Justinianis, in ara’: D.M/ LAPPIAE/ PRIMA B.F/ VIX A/ XXXXIII).

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Museums), but Michaelis stated that the Ince Blundell inscription was copied from another urn and is modern: however, he may have been basing his conclusion on the fact that the inscription is recorded on a different ash chest in the Monumenta Mattheiana plates. From the evidence cited so far it might seem that on balance the Ince Blundell version of the inscription is the more likely to be the original. However, a closer examination of the chest shows that the letters appear to have been cut over an already damaged panel, suggesting that this is indeed a modern copy.33 In fact whether or not this is a copy there are problems with the text. The inscription reads: D M/ LAPPIAE.PRIMAE.F/ [vi]X.A.XXXXIII. What does the F in the second line stand for? If ‘filiae’, whose daughter is she? If ‘fecit’ who did the making? One suggestion is that it stands for ‘factum’, with ‘hoc monumentum’ understood. The other version of this inscription, from the Giustiniani collection, reads ‘Lappiae Primae B F’, which is no better. Are we dealing with an oddly phrased but original inscription—or could both versions be modern? Similar considerations apply in the case of the inscription to Livia.34 This appears twice in the Monumenta Mattheiana illustrations, on a chest that looks quite like the one in the Ince Blundell collection, and on another chest that appears to be no longer extant. As with the inscription to Lappia Prima, the inscription appears perhaps suspiciously clear given the weathered surface of the panel, but it is recorded by Muratori as being in the Mattei collection. Here too the actual wording of the inscription poses problems: D M/LIVIAE.P.F/ P.LIVIVS.FORTVNATVS/ LIBERTAE. Livia has only one name, which was usual only for slaves, yet she is described as a freedwoman. Moreover, if Livia was a freedwoman the ‘P F’ (daughter of Publius) formula should not have been used. Perhaps Livia was both Livius Fortunatus’s daughter (by a slave) and 33 I am grateful to Susan Walker for this observation. 34 Muratori (1740), p. 1545, no. 9; Mon. Math. III, pl. 73:2 (for inscription only: pl. 69:4 and p. 151); Blundell (1803), p. 138, no. 396; Michaelis (1882), p. 404, no. 319; CIL VI 21416. D M/ LIVIAE.P.F/ P.LIVIVS.FORTVNATVS/ LIBERTAE.

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Figure 7.12: Ash chest of Laflius Primigenius.

Figure 7.13: Ash chest with inscription D M ET CINERIBVS QCPF.

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his freedwoman (born in slavery but set free by him), and the inscription’s composer was ignorant of (or deliberately ignored) the convention that the ‘filia’ designation was only used for freeborn women. The entry in CIL casts doubt on the genuineness of this inscription,35 but is that justified? The ash chest of Laflius Primigenius (Figure 7.12) is another puzzle.36 The ‘chest’ itself has been cobbled together from a number of slabs of marble, which would seem to suggest clumsy modern manufacture. The decoration on the main slab of the front is a pattern of broadly incised lines which does not look particularly Roman. However the inscription does have a good ancestry in the sense that it appears in several late seventeenth- and eighteenthcentury collections of inscriptions, all of which put it in the Mattei collection.37 Fabretti however does record a slightly different version, with Primus instead of Primigenius, and the letter-forms are perhaps suspiciously close to those on the ash chest of Lappia Prima (see in particular the shape of the ‘R’). Could this, too, be a ‘modern’ inscription, but one created at some date in the seventeenth/ eighteenth century before the sale of the Mattei collection? A final example of an inscription which is probably modern, but which is much cited in the earlier literature, is the one which reads ‘D.M./ ET/ CINERIBVS.Q.C./ P.F’ (Figure 7.13).38 It is not at all clear what the last four letters stand for, but another inscription is 35 The entry in CIL comments: ‘Titulus tam propter praenomen insolitum patroni quam libertam cognomine carentem suspectus est.’ 36 Muratori (1740), p. 1698, no. 9; Mon. Math. III, pl. 61:1 (chest) and pl. 68:3, p. 163 (for inscription); Blundell (1803), p. 132, no. 385; Michaelis (1882), p. 404, no. 320; CIL VI 21027. Q.LAFLIVS/ PRIMIGENIVS/ VIX.ANNIS. XX. Exported by Lisandroni and d’Este in 1789. 37 Fabretti (1699), p. 627, no. 233: Q.LAFLIVS/ PRIMVS/ VIX.ANNIS. XX, in hortis Matthaeis; Muratori (1740), p. 1698, no. 9 (gives nomen as Laelius). See CIL for further references. 38 Muratori (1740), p. 1772, no. 4; Mon. Math. III, pp. 162–63 (inscription), and possibly pl. 62:3 (chest, with different inscription); Blundell (1803), p. 139, no. 399; Michaelis (1882), p. 408, no. 344; CIL VI 13666 (with further references). Exported by Lisandroni and d’Este in 1789. D. M./ ET/CINERIBVS.Q.C./ P.F

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also recorded as being in the Mattei collection, identical in form but with four different (and equally baffling) final letters: TPAG.39 The entry under CIL VI 13666 conjectures that both urns came from the same tomb, but of course another possibility is that they were products of the same forger.40 The ash chest in the Ince Blundell collection is unusual in its shape, decoration and degree of finish, and if it is Roman these characteristics would suggest a very early date (Augustan-Tiberian), but this does not explain the anomalous inscription. A third inscription, in what still remains of the Mattei collection today, has a very similar letter style. This is on a funerary altar and commemorates a Quintus Muttius. It has been suggested that this is a modern inscription dating back to c. 1600 when there was a member of the Mattei family called Muzio.41 The style of this inscription is similar to the Ince Blundell one in several respects, and it may be that the QCPF and TPAG inscriptions were carved at much the same time and by the same stonecutter, in which case these letters may have had some special significance for the Mattei family.

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f Henry Blundell’s 52 ash chests, slightly less than half have inscriptions that leave no doubt that they are genuinely ancient. For the rest, the inscriptions are either certainly or possibly modern. Of the modern inscriptions, some are on ash chests of modern manufacture, others are embellishments of monuments that otherwise appear to be ancient. In several cases the modern 39 Fabretti (1699), p. 22, no. 98 (locates it in the Mattei gardens); Gude (1731), p. 337, no. 16; Mon. Math. III, pp. 162–63; CIL VI 23644. 40 The entry under CIL VI 13666 reads: ‘urna cum titulo huic simillimo … quae et ipsa saec. XVII medio prostitit in hortis Matthaeiorum … fortasse ex eodem sepulcro venit’. 41 Guerrini (1982), pp. 178–79, no. 42, pl. LIII.

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inscriptions seem to have been created at about the time the Mattei collection was being sold off, not long before Blundell bought them, but for the others the date of carving would seem to be considerably earlier. Thus they appear in numerous manuscript and printed collections of inscriptions, and have acquired quite a respectablelooking ‘pedigree’. Blundell’s collecting habits were similar to those of many other, especially British, collectors of antiquities of the time, and it is likely that the same high proportion of modern inscriptions are to be found in other collections of this type. The compilers of CIL VI have correctly identified some of the ‘fakes’, but are not infallible, and Michaelis in particular cannot be relied on to identify an inscription correctly as modern or ancient. In the case of T. Flavius Zmaragdus, for example, Michaelis incorrectly assumes the inscription is modern because this chest is illustrated with only ‘D M’ in the inscription panel in Monumenta Mattheiana III, but in fact the inscription is recorded there, albeit on the ash chest illustrated next to it (see Figure 7.8).42 The inscription appears to be original, and Michaelis’s doubts are unfounded. The inscriptions in collections such as Henry Blundell’s cannot be taken at face value, and in fact even when they are examined in detail it can be extraordinarily difficult to tell whether they are ancient or modern. How important is it to ascertain whether such inscriptions are ancient or modern? Ash chest inscriptions are seldom very long or original, and mostly only record the ordinary people of Rome, but they contain a wealth of information for the social historian, and their value is obviously diminished if their authenticity is in doubt. Such inscriptions have been used collectively in statistical 42 See note 25. Michaelis says the inscription was ‘borrowed’ from Mon. Math. III, pl. 73:6, but this is of course not so. Michaelis’s doubt about the authenticity of the inscription was recorded in the CIL entry (‘Michaelis, qui exemplum Blundellianum novicium visum est’), and this was repeated more recently in Manacorda (1984), p. 539. Nevertheless the inscription appears to be original and was recorded by Fabretti (1699), p. 705, no. 261; Gude (1731), p. 329, no. 3 and Muratori (1740), p. 1002, no. 7 (see the entry in CIL for other early references).

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surveys (such as those of life expectancy) and in other surveys of aspects such as Roman nomenclature or Roman social patterns. The inscriptions have also contributed significantly to the building up of a chronological framework used to date the ash chests themselves. A few examples from the Ince Blundell collection can show how rich a resource this is—but also how difficult it is to use. The inscription on the ash chest illustrated in Figure 7.3 commemorates a little boy, T. Flavius Eutyches, who died aged five. His mother, Flavia Peloris, erected the ash chest, and he is described in the inscription as ‘Sp(urii) f(ilius)’: in other words, he was illegitimate—his father is not named and he takes his nomen from his mother.43 It is perhaps significant in itself that a mother of an illegitimate child could afford a comparatively elaborate ash chest for her young son, and that she was prepared to state his illegitimacy so openly in the inscription. However, even this inscription does not tell us all we would like to know: it is likely that Flavia Peloris was an imperial freedwoman, though this is not in fact stated in the text (she might, for example, have been the daughter or descendant of an imperial freedman). It is likely that the ash chest was made in the Flavian period, but this does not necessarily follow from the inscription.44 Quite a high proportion of ash chests were dedicated to or by imperial freedmen/women, which allows them to be dated, although only within fairly broad limits. Three other ash chests in the Ince Blundell collection were dedicated to Flavians. In the case of T. Flavius Zmaragdus the inscription says unequivocally that he was ‘Aug. lib.’: as we are not told his age at death he could have died within the Flavian age or some time after it. The style of the ash chest’s decoration however does fit with that of others that can be assigned to the Flavian period. As we have seen, Michaelis questioned the authenticity of this inscription, but his doubts were unfounded. In another inscription an imperial freedman called Astectus, who 43 Treggiari (1991), pp. 317–18. 44 Sinn (1987), p. 152; Manacorda (1982), p. 725.

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was employed ‘a cognitionibus’ (as a clerk of the courts), provided an ash chest for his own freedwoman, Flavia Nysa.45 His nomen is not mentioned in the inscription, but as she is a Flavian presumably he too was a Flavian imperial freedman. A date around the turn of the first/second centuries AD might be likely, and this too fits with other stylistically similar pieces. The third piece mentioning a Flavian provides much less information. This is a double ash chest on which the left hand inscription panel is dedicated to Festiva by her father Hermes (the use of single names here suggests that both were slaves), while the right hand panel is dedicated to Flavia Onesime.46 Again we are not told whether she was an imperial freedwoman, or what her relationship might have been with Hermes and Festiva. The style of the ash chest is difficult to date, but it could have been made earlier than the Flavian period. Even when inscriptions appear to give a date within narrrower limits there can be problems. Claudius Onesimus is named on his ash chest as a freedman of Acte.47 An ash chest in the British Museum uses the same formula—‘Actes lib.’—for another freedman, Ti. Claudius Lupercus.48 This might naturally be taken as a reference to the Acte, who was herself an imperial freedwoman and famous in history as Nero’s mistress, but Sinn queries this, as other inscriptions 45 Fabretti (1699), p. 208, no. 513; Mon. Math. III, pl. 58:4 and p. 113; Blundell (1803), p. 124, no. 369; Michaelis (1882), p. 406, no. 332; CIL VI 8629; Manacorda (1982), p. 734. DIS. MAN/ FLAVIAE.NYSAE/ ASTECTVS.AVG LIB/ A COGNITIONIBVS/ LIBERTAE BENE.DESE.MERITAE. 46 Muratori (1740), p. 1564, no. 8: Blundell (1803), pp. 126–27, no. 374; Michaelis (1882), p. 409, no. 362; CIL VI 17895/6. Exported by Lisandroni and d’Este in 1789; left: D.M/ FESTIVAE/ FEC.HERMES/ PATER; right: D.M/ FLAVIAES ONE/SIMES.VIX.ANN/ XXVII. 47 Fabretti (1699), p. 125, no. 32; Mon. Math. III, pl. 61:1 and p. 146; Blundell (1803), pp. 131–32, no. 384; Michaelis (1882), p. 408, no. 345; CIL VI 15176. Exported by Lisandroni and d’Este in 1789. DIS.MANIBVS.SACRV/ TI.CLAVDIO.ONESIMO/ ACTES.LIB. CLAVDIA/ FELICVLA.CONIVGI.SVO/ BENE.MERENTI.FECIT/ VIXIT.CVM.EO. ANNIS XXXI. 48 British Museum 2355: CIL VI 15137; Altmann (1905), pp. 101, 104, no. 86; Sinn (1987), p. 203, no. 465, pl. 72:d. TI.CLAVDIVS/ LVPERCVS/ ACTES LIB.

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define Acte herself as ‘Aug. lib.’.49 It is possible that this was omitted on occasion for lack of space, but it is also possible that the inscriptions to Claudius Onesimus and Claudius Lupercus are fakes, or refer to a different Acte. Even if we assume the Ince Blundell inscription is genuine (and I think it is), and that the Acte referred to is the Acte (which I think is likely), this still leaves quite a wide latitude for the date. We do not know how old Onesimus was when he was set free, or how old he was when he died, though he could not have been a young man, as he had lived with his wife for 31 years. He could have lived only one year after manumission by Acte, or over forty. The chronology for ash chests is still in the process of being worked out: at its core lies information derived from inscriptions like these. It is extremely rare for the date of death of a person commemorated by an ash chest to be known, and generally ash chests will at best be dated to a very broad period of time by the information on the inscription, but gradually a picture can be built up of the styles of ash chests popular in different periods, and dating by style alone can be done with some degree of confidence. Obviously it is important in this process that the authenticity of the inscriptions can be assessed, and modern additions discounted. It would be easy to dismiss the ‘modern’ inscriptions as merely inconveniences in the study of Roman society, and of no significance in themselves, but the world of collectors, restorers and forgers of antiquities is in itself an area of considerable recent interest. The Ince Blundell collection provides evidence for the generation of ‘modern’ versions of Roman inscriptions over quite a long period of time (probably at least the two centuries from 1600 to 1800), and this practice itself could be researched further. Who was responsible for these ‘forgeries’, and what was their motivation? How important did Henry Blundell think it was that the inscriptions on his ash chests (and the ash chests themselves) were ‘genuine’? The treatment of these monuments in the post-Roman period is also part of their history. 49 Sinn (1987), p. 203.

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Bibliography Altmann, W. (1905), Die römischen Grabaltäre der Kaiserzeit, Berlin. Blundell, H. (1803), An Account of the Statues, Busts, Bass-Relieves, Cinerary Urns, and Other Ancient Marbles and Paintings at Ince. Collected by H. B., Liverpool. Davies, G. (1978), ‘Fashion in the Grave: A Study of the Motifs used to Decorate the Grave Altars, Ash Chests and Sarcophagi made in Rome in the Early Empire (to the mid-second century AD)’, PhD diss. University of London. Davies, G. (1990), ‘Roman Cineraria in “Monumenta Mattheiana” and the Collection of Henry Blundell at Ince’, AntJ 70, pp. 34–39. Fabretti, R. (1699) = Fabrettius, Inscriptionum antiquarum quae in aedibus paternis asservantur explicatio et additamentum, Rome. Fejfer, J. and E. Southworth (1991), The Ince Blundell Collection of Classical Sculpture. Volume I: The Portraits, London. Gude, M. (1731) = Gudius, Antiquae Inscriptiones quum Graecae, tum Latinae, olim a Marquado Gudio collectae: nuper a Ioanne Koolio digestae, Leovardiae. Guerrini, L., ed. (1982), Palazzo Mattei di Giove: le Antichità, Rome. Manacorda, D. (1979–80), Un Officina Lapidaria sulla Via Appia, Rome Manacorda, D. (19820, ‘Amalfi: urne romane e commerci medioevali’, in APARCHAI, Nuove ricerche e studi sulla Magna Grecia e la Sicilia antica in onore di Paolo Enrico Arias, II, Pisa, pp. 713–52. Manacorda, D. (1984), ‘Urne romane nel museo di Fiesole’, in Studi di Antichita in onore di G. Maetzke, III, pp. 535–48. Michaelis, A. T. F. (1882), Ancient Marbles in Great Britain, Cambridge. Mon. Matth. = Monumenta Mattheiana. Venuti, R. and G. C. Armaduzzi, Vetera monumenta quae in hortis Caelimontanis et in aedibus Matthaeiorum adservantur nunc primum in unum collecta et adnotationibus illustrata, III, Rome, 1778. Muratori, L. A. (1740) = Muratorius, Novus Thesaurus Veterum Inscriptionum, II and III, Milan. Sinn, F. (1987), Stadtrömische Marmorurnen, Beitrage zur Erschliessung hellenistischer und kaiserzeitlicher Skulptur und Architektur, VIII, Mainz am Rhein.

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Southworth, E. (1991), ‘The Ince Blundell collection: collecting behaviour in the eighteenth century’, in Plaster and Marble. The Classical and Neo-Classical Portrait Bust (Journal of the History of Collections 3,2), ed. G. Davies, pp. 219–34. Treggiari, S. (1991), Roman Marriage. Iusti Coniuges from the Time of Cicero to the Time of Ulpian, Oxford.

General Index Aegina, 2 age, 6, 13–15, 119, 123–29, 136–40, 143–48 Aigiale, Amorgos, 93, 104 anthropology, 117–18, 156, 178–79, 181 Antioch-Orontes, 91 antiquities authenticity, 7–8, 188–214 (passim) Aristodikos, 28 (Figure 2.1), 29 associations, 65 n. 27 Athens (see Kerameikos) Archaic, 26–31, 42–44 demosion sema, 33 fifth century, 6, 25–55 (passim) fourth century, 7, 9–10, 59–78 (passim), 169 Hellenistic, 7, 81–107 (passim) Kallithea, 68 Parthenon, 39–40 plague at, 11, 27, 50, 51, 54 Roman, 81–107 (passim) athletes, 41 Bassai, 2 Blundell, Henry, 188–214 (passsim) burial absence of funerary marker, 62–64, 126, 137–38, 161 clubs (see associations, collegium), 161 cost, 10–11, 15, 59–78 cult, 7, 175

grants, 10–11 mounds, 44, 48, 51 n. 60 plots, 6, 8, 10, 11, 42, 51, 66–67, 77 ritual, 5–6, 10, 11, 33, 43–44, 46, 63, 157–58 state funeral, 46, 50 timing, 63–64 Carnuntum, 175 cemeteries Cambridge, 178 Comely Bank, Edinburgh, 135 n. 65 Dean Park, Edinburgh, 135 n. 65 development in England, 1–4 Glasgow, 1 Kensal Green, London, 3 Kerameikos, Athens, 6, 7, 29–42, 47, 51 n. 60 Isola Sacra, Ostia/Portus, 158, 159 Lanark, 135 n. 65 Mainz, 160–80 Nisky Hill, 6 Pompeii, 158 Saffron Walden, 135–36 Vatican, Rome, 158, 159 Victorian, 2–3, 178 children, 13–14, 39, 92, 118, 117–51 (passim), 212 Cicero, 42–43, 47–48, 53, 72 Cimon, son of Miltiades, 45 cippi, 66, 69 (Figure 3.1A), 72

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citizenship, 83–84, 88, 102–104, 106, 180–81 Athenian, 17, 96, 99, 104 Pericles, citizenship law, 52, 54 Roman, 16–17, 167, 168, 179 Claudius, 167 cleruchy, 96, 104 collecting habits, 7–8, 9, 211 collegium, 10–11, 15 Cologne, 173, 175 colonies Thessalonica, 17 colonisation, 13, 94–95 columella (kioniskos), 66–67, 70 (Figures 3.1B, 3.2), 72 commerce see trade conspicuous consumption, 2, 3 n. 6, 6–7, 10, 17, 44, 46–47, 51, 54, 178–79 cultural imperialism, 2 D’Este, 188, 198 death attitudes to, 6, 14 dedications, 46 Delos, 96, 98 demarch, 63 Demetrius of Phalerum, 43, 47–48, 54, 72–74 demography, 14, 123–29, 157 Domitian, 160 Elgin marbles, 2 emotion, 6, 14, 117–18, 119–51 (passim) England Georgian, 2 nineteenth century, 1–3 ephebes, 83, 90–92, 95, 100–02, 104, 106 Ephesos, 89 epigram, funerary, 49 epigraphical habit, 16–18, 88, 90, 123, 161

Athens, 17–18 Roman, 16–17 ethnicity, 12–13, 84–86 Eupheros, 36 (Figure 2.5), 37–39, 40–41 Fabretti, 188, 209 family, 13–15, 41–42, 44, 51–52, 54, 61–64, 64 n. 23, 68–71, 88–89, 100–101, 103, 106, 117–118, 120–151 (passim), 157, 179 fashion (see taste) foreigners, 31, 50–51, 82–96 freedmen, 83, 121–22, 159, 179, 212–14 freedwomen, 122, 207, 209, 212–13 funerary monuments ash chests, 8–9, 187–214 (passim) context, 3–8, 16–18, 19, 157–58, 159, 176–77 cost, 9–10, 29, 44, 59–78, 130 n. 53, 149 n. 91, 161, 165 decoration, 8, 15, 26–27, 31, 33, 35, 38, 65 n. 28, 65–66, 159, 163, 165, 174–77, 181, 187 democratic Athens, 43–44, 51 depiction of (on vases), 33, 34 (Figure 2.4) language, use of, 121, 129–34, 140–44, 146–47, 194, 198 naiskoi, 41 paint, 31, 38 regional styles, 39–41, 50, 52 restraint, 45–46, 54, 178–79 reuse, 7, 67 n. 35, 158–59, 176–77 Totenmahl, 173, 175 uninscribed markers, 11 Gortyn, 40 grave goods, 46 Gude, 188–89, 206 Harpalos, 68 health, 3

General Index Heraclea Pontica, 87 Heracleots, 84, 87, 90 hunters, 41 Ince Blundell Hall, 8–9, 188 infanticide, 14, 128 infants, 6, 13–14, 117–51 (passim) inhumation, 38 inscribing costs, 74–75 Inscription Painter, The, 33–35, 34 (Figure 2.4) inscriptions later additions, 7–8, 187–214 (passim) intermarriage, 12, 82, 102–06 isopoliteia, 96, 104 isoteleia, 83 Italy seventeenth century, 210 eighteenth century, 9, 188–89, 198–207 Kerameikos, Athens, 6, 29–31, 32 (Figure 2.3), 33, 35, 37–42, 47, 51 n. 60 Sudhügel, 29–31 kioniskos (see columella) Kirchner, J., 72–73, 78 kore, 52 kouros, 27–29, 28 (Figure 2.1), 48–49 Laodicea, 91 Latmos Bay, 97–98, 111–14 Legio XIV (Gemina), 161, 170 (Figure 6.4) XVI, 162 (Figure 6.1), 163 XXII (Primigenia), 160, 180 legislation, funerary, 6, 27, 42–55, 72–74 lekythoi, 33–35, 37–38, 41, 47, 50, 53 lettering, 31, 190–91, 194–95, 198, 203 life expectancy, 14 Lisandroni, 188, 198 Lissos, 38–39

219

liturgy, 65–67 loss, 14, 118 Lycurgus, son of Lykophron, Bate, 71 Lysimachides, son of Lysitheos, Acharnai, 66–67, 69 (Figure 3.1A) MacMullen, Ramsay, 16–18 Mainz, 15, 156, 159–81 (passim) manumission, 96, 214 Marathon, 44 Mattei, 188–89, 199–200, 206, 209–10 Megara, 87, 89 Merenda, Attica, 6 metics, 82–84, 87–88, 102 Meyer, Elizabeth, 17–18, 60 Michaelis, 189, 206–07 migration, 13, 89, 93–96, 98, 100–07, 113–14 Milesians, 12–13, 81–107 (passim) Miletus, 13, 92–107, 111–14 Miletus, Crete, 85 Mithridatic war, 95, 98 Morris, Ian, 5, 42, 45, 47, 53, 60, 158 mortality, 14, 117–18, 125, 134, 137, 138 n. 70 Muratori, 188, 206–07 names, 13, 90, 180 demotics, 75, 89, 104 double ethnics, 94 ethnics, 84–87, 92–93 metronymics, 92 patronymics, 75 tria nomina, 122–23 Nautes, son of Eudemides, Torone, 30 (Figure 2.2) Neaira, 89 Nerva, 10–11 Nicomedia, 88, 91 North Africa, 10, 16–17 Pausanias, 67–68 Peloponnesian war, 27–28, 51, 54

220

The Epigraphy of Death

peribolos tomb, 8, 42, 51, 66–67, 71–72 Persian wars, 27, 29, 43–44, 51 Phigaleian marbles, 2 Pidasa, 92, 114 Piraeus, Attica,39–40 Pisistratids, 29 Plataea, 43–44, 46 Plato, 48, 77 poletai, 61, 64 pollution, 63 Pompey, 95 population pressure,13, 114 prostitutes, 89, 92 quantitative study, 17–18, 29, 81–92, 118–19, 121–29, 136–50, 174 religion (see also burial: ritual, pollution, Temples) sanctuaries, 46, 51 theoroi, 99 Rhodes, 98 Richter, Gisela, 48–49 roads, 27 Robert, L. , 94 Rome, 118–51 (passim), 187–214 (passim) Samos, 90 sanitation, 3 Schuwalow Painter, The, 39 sculptors, 40, 51 sculpture, 8, 15, 29, 39, 41, 44, 46, 48, 50, 52, 67 slaves, 48, 82 n. 3, 84, 90, 93, 96, 121–23, 126, 165, 179, 207, 209, 213 social hierarchies, 6, 15, 16–17, 27, 54, 73, 78, 122–23, 145, 155–56, 161, 167–68, 178–81

soldiers, 41, 54, 160–82 (passim) auxiliaries, 15, 160, 166 (Figure 6.3), 167–69, 171–77, 172 (Figure 6.5), 179–81 cavalrymen, 164 (Figure 6.2), 165–69, 166 (Figure 6.3), 171, 175, 180 legionaries, 15, 160–63, 165, 167–68, 170 (Figure 6.4), 171, 173–77, 180–81 Sparta, 45 status, 16–17, 71, 73, 90, 140, 156, 178–81 Strang, Gavin, 1–2 stucco, 49 Sulla, 95–96 suicide, 11 synoikism, 92, 114 taste, 2, 61, 68, 150 Temples, 2 Aphaia, 2 dead in precincts, 11 temple robbers, 11 Thanatos Painter, The, 37 n. 17 Themistocles, 45 Theosebes, son of Theophilou, Xypete, 61–65 tombstones see funerary monuments trade, 97–98, 99, 111 Tymbos Painter, The, 35, 37 n. 17, 52 war dead, 27, 44 wealth, 6–7, 9–12, 17, 27–29, 59, 66–67 Woman Painter, The, 39 women, 34 (Figure 2.4), 35, 41, 43, 52, 86, 87-, 89, 92, 100, 102–104, 207, 208 Xenophon, 87

Index Locorum Aelian Variae Historiae 6.10: 52 n. 64.

British Museum (BM), London 628: 40; 2355: 213–14.

Agora XIX P5: 61–65, 77.

Cicero de legibus II.64–65: 42–45, 47–49; 53; 72; II.66: 72; Tusc. 1.39.93: 145; 3.28.70–71: 133 n. 61.

[Aristotle] Athenaion Politeia 26.4: 52 n. 64; 55.3: 52. Aristotle Historia Animalium 7.588a.8: 125 n. 35. Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 13.594–5: 68 n. 38. ARV2 748, no. 2: 33, 34 (Figure 2.4); 754: 35 n. 14; 754, no. 3: 36 n. 16; 754, no. 7: 35 n. 16; 754, no. 9: 35 n. 16; 754, no. 10: 37 n. 16; 754, no. 11: 35 n. 16; 754, no. 14: 35 n. 16; 845 no. 169: 37 n. 17; 845, no. 170: 37 n. 17; 1231: 37 n. 17. Ausonius Parentalia X: 145 n. 85. Berlin Staat. Museum 3324: 35 n. 16. Boston Museum of Fine Arts (MFA) 01.8080: 37 n. 17; 10.220: 37 n. 17.

CAT 1.050: 41; 1.202: 40; 1.180: 49 n. 54; 1.610: 39; 1.630: 40; 1.660: 14 n. 50; 2.051: 40; 2.432b: 49 n. 54; 5.150: 49 n. 54. CIL VI 1334: 125 n. 36; 5621: 146 n. 87; 6182: 146 n. 87; 6319: 146 n. 87; 7479: 146 n. 87; 7898: 146 n. 87; 8038: 138 n. 70; 8198: 138 n. 70; 8461: 140 n. 75; 8629: 212–13; 10731: 146 n. 87; 10764: 146 n. 87; 10784: 139; 11175: 140 n. 75; 11592: 146 n. 87; 12009: 146 n. 87; 12013: 146 n. 87; 12048: 200 nn. 21–22; 12087: 146 n. 87; 12366: 140 n. 76; 12403: 139; 12526: 139; 13027: 138 n. 70; 13112: 141 n. 78; 13666: 208 (Figure 7.13), 209–12, 210 n. 40; 14073: 198–99, 198 nn. 13–14; 14105: 140 n. 75; 14578: 146 n. 87; 14786: 146 n. 87; 15122: 125 n. 36; 15137: 213–14; 15160: 138

222

The Epigraphy of Death

n. 70; 15176: 213–14; 15245: 199; 15268: 146; 16059: 146 n. 87; 16185: 140 n. 75; 16458: 200; 16579: 140 n. 75; 16625: 190 n. 5, 190–91, 192 (Figure 7.1); 17196: 146 n. 87; 17240: 141 n. 77; 17895/6: 213; 17935: 139; 18059: 191 n. 7, 193 (Figure 7.3), 212; 18086: 141 n. 78, 142 n. 80, 146 n. 87; 18257: 201 n. 25, 202 (Figure 7.8); 18566: 141, 141 n. 77; 18661: 141 n. 76; 19159: 131 n. 54; 19331: 146 n. 87; 19747: 146 n. 87; 19874: 146 n. 87; 20052: 191, 191 n. 6, 192 (Figure 7.2); 20128: 146 n. 87; 20567: 199; 20674: 146 n. 87; 21027: 208 (Figure 7.12), 209; 21033: 131 n. 54; 21093: 204 (Figures 7.10–11), 206–07; 21416: 207–09; 21949: 191 n. 8, 193 (Figure 7.4), 194; 22013: 138 n. 70; 22316: 140 n. 75; 22321: 146 n. 87; 22385: 140 n. 75; 22936: 140 n. 76; 22994: 146 n. 87; 23010: 146 n. 87; 23642: 125 n. 36; 23644: 210 n. 39; 24012: 141 n. 76; 24271: 197 (Figure 7.7), 201, 202 (Figure 7.8); 24452: 140 n. 75; 24961: 146 n. 87; 25288: 140 n. 75; 25548: 204 (Figure 7.11), 205; 205 nn. 27–28; 25579: 203–05, (cf 204, Figure 7.10); 25679: 195, 195 nn. 10–11, 197 (Figure 7.6); 25728: 141 n. 76; 26203: 146 n. 87; 26467: 141 n. 77; 26473: 141 n. 77; 26544: 142 n. 80, 146 n. 87; 26623: 146 n. 87; 26680: 146 n. 87; 27060: 146 n. 87; 27140: 146 n. 87; 27147: 139; 27274: 122; 27383: 146 n. 87; 27534: 141 n. 77; 27572: 138 n. 70; 27728: 146 n. 87; 27799: 140 n. 75; 28044: 146 n. 87; 28055: 138 n. 70; 28228: 146 n. 87;

28239: 146 n. 87; 28695: 139 n. 71; 28967: 138 n. 70; 29230: 140 n. 75; 29287: 141 n. 76; 29436: 146 n. 87; 29609: 146 n. 87; 29629: 146 n. 87; 29884: 146 n. 87; 30110: 146 n. 87; 33227: 140 n. 75; 34633: 140 n. 75; 34640: 141 n. 76; 34817: 146 n. 87; 35123: 140 n. 75; 35126: 146 n. 87; 36101: 141 n. 77; 36355: 139 n. 71; 37176: 140 n. 75. CIL VII 159: 200 nn. 21–22. CIL XIII 6921: 162 (Figure 6.1), 163; 7023: 164 (Figure 6.2), 165, 168; 7029: 165, 166 (Figure 6.3), 168 n. 34. CSIR Deutschland II.5 1–2: 171; 5: 171; 7: 170 (Figure 6.4), 171, 173; 8: 171, 173 n. 40; 9: 173; 12: 173; 19: 173; 20: 173; 21: 171; 22–24: 171; 29: 167; 31: 165, 166 (Figure 6.3), 168 n. 34; 35: 164 (Figure 6.2), 165, 168, 173 n. 40; 39: 165 n. 28; 51: 175; 52: 175; 53: 175; 55: 161; 59: 165; 79: 165; 87: 162 (Figure 6.1), 163. CVA Bonn I 66 pls. 43.2: 37 n. 17; 44.4: 37 n. 17; Vienna I pl. 9, 5: 37 n. 16. Demosthenes 40.52: 62 n. 15; 45.79: 62 n. 15. [Demosthenes] 43.57–58: 63–64, 77;45.79: 77; 59.46: 89 n. 27. Diodorus Siculus 11.33.3: 43; 17.108: 68 n. 38.

Index Locorum Eumolos fr. 2: 52 n. 64. FGrH 228 f. 9: 72. Fronto ad M. Caes. 1.6.7: 145 n. 85; de nepote omisso ii: 145 n. 85, 150 n. 93. Glasterer and Galsterer, Die römischen Steninschriften aus Köln 245: 175; 246: 175; 255: 175; 256: 175. Hesperia 10 (1941) 14–27, no. 1 (Ag. I 5509): 61–65, 77; 21 (1952) 355–59, no. 5 (Ag. I 6524): 75. Horos 5 (1987) 31–44: 71 ID

2103: 98 n. 52.

IG I3 422 ll. 195–205: 83 n. 7; 427: 83 n. 7; 810–900: 46; 1142–1193bis: 33; 1237bis: 31; 1244: 28 (Figure 2.1); 1261: 52; 1276: 29; 1280: 31; 1282: 31; 1282bis: 40; 1283: 36 (Figure 2.5), 37 n. 18, 40, 41; 1294: 38–9; 1311: 40; 1315: 39; 1341: 31; 1343: 31; 1344: 82 n. 3; 1346: 31; 1349: 82 n. 3; 1349bis: 40 1355: 31; 1356: 31; 1358: 31; 1360: 31; 1361: 31; 1371: 31; 1377: 30 (Figure 2.2), 31; 1378: 31. IG II2 31: 74 n. 55; 116: 74 n. 55; 135: 75 n. 55; 226: 75 n. 55; 240: 75 n.

223

58; 448: 75 n. 55; 982: 99; 985: 99; 992: 99; 1006: 91 n. 31; 1009: 91 n. 32; 1031: 91 n. 32; 1278: 65 n. 27; 1323 ll. 10–11: 65 n. 27; 1327 ll. 10–12: 65 n. 27; 1553–1578: 83 n. 5; 1672 ll. 119–20: 63 n. 19; 1721: 104 n. 76; 1728: 104 n. 76; 1728: 104 n. 76; 1729: 104 n. 76; 1731: 104 n. 76; 2024: 91; 2086: 104 n. 76; 2097: 104 n. 76; 2313–2317: 85 n. 14; 5373: 73 n. 49; 5441: 73 n. 51; 5488: 73 n. 53; 5501: 65 n. 28; 5665: 73 n. 52; 5806: 73 n. 53; 5810: 73 n. 51; 5813: 66 n. 32, 70 (Figure 3.1B), 72, 73 n. 51; 5843: 73 n. 46; 5847: 66 n. 28; 5891: 73 n. 46; 5976: 73 n. 49; 6082: 73 n. 51; 6370: 65 n. 28; 6433: 73 n. 51; 6493: 73 n. 53; 6522: 73 n. 53; 6569: 65 n. 28; 6599: 73 n. 49; 6612: 73 n. 50; 6619: 73 n. 50; 6635: 65 n. 28; 6667: 65 n. 28; 6729: 73 n. 50; 6900: 73 n. 49; 6920: 73 n. 46; 6941: 73 n. 51; 6960: 73 n. 53; 6969: 65 n. 28; 6970: 65 n. 28; 7232: 73 n. 51; 7245: 73 n. 50; 7286: 65 n. 28; 7297: 73 n. 50; 7325: 73 n. 49; 7378: 73 n. 49; 7432: 73 n. 49; 7455: 73 n. 50; 7533: 73 n. 49; 7552: 73 n. 49; 7579: 73 n. 49; 7636: 65 n. 28; 7643: 73 n. 49; 7645: 73 n. 49; 7647: 73 n. 49; 7648: 73 n. 49; 7652: 73 n. 49; 7672: 73 n. 50; 7673: 73 n. 50; 7696: 73 n. 49; 7763: 73 n. 50; 7766: 73 n. 53; 7802: 73 n. 49; 7806: 73 n. 50; 7822: 73 n. 49; 7863: 73 n. 46; 7967: 84; 7997: 73 n. 46; 8324: 85 n. 12; 8404: 73 n. 46; 8414: 73 n. 46; 8488: 73 n. 46; 8808: 73 n. 46; 8904: 73 n. 46; 8935: 73 n. 46; 9032: 73 n. 46; 9034: 73 n. 46;

224

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9035: 73 n. 46; 9046: 73 n. 46; 9093: 85 n. 11; 9269: 84; 9308: 73 n. 46; 9432: 104 n. 75; 9446: 104 n. 75; 9475: 94; 9631: 104 n. 75; 9753: 104 n. 75; 9973: 84; 10079: 73 n. 46; 10314: 73 n. 46; 10382: 84; 10512: 73 n. 46; 10650: 14 n. 50; 11720: 66 n. 32; 11817: 66 n. 32; 12002: 66 n. 32, 67 n. 33, 69 (Figure 3.1A), 72; 12118: 73 n. 46; 12147: 39; 12332: 40; 12623/24: 86 n. 16. IG VII 3073 ll. 10–12: 76 n. 65. IG XI 2.161A, l. 117: 76 n. 62. IG XII 396: 93; 397: 93. I Milet VI 1, 203: 101 n. 67; 1, 368: 101 n. 68; 2, 756: 101 n. 69. I Priene 109 ll. 47–49: 98 n. 53. Kerameikos I 417: 38 n. 19; P1145: 29; P1169: 36 (Figure 2.5), 37 n. 18, 40, 41. Louvre 769: 40; MNB 3059: 35 n. 16; MND 890: 29. Lycurgus In Leocratem 139–140: 71. Lysias 19.59: 62 n. 15; 31.12: 62 n. 15.

McCabe, D., and M. A. Plunkett, Miletos Inscriptions (Princeton, 1984) no. 12: 101 n. 67; no. 34: 101 n. 66; no. 54: 85 n. 11; no. 61: 92 n. 37; no. 192: 100. Martial Epigr. 7.96: 145 n. 85. Metropolitan Museum, New York (MM NY): 15.167: 29. Michaelis, Ancient Marbles in Great Britain 230: 199; 235: 204 (Figures 7.10–11), 206–07; 236: 199; 312: 191, 191 n. 6, 192 (Figure 7.2); 314: 199–200, 201 n. 23; 315: 194, 196 (Figures 7.5 and 7.5A); 317: 190 n. 5, 190–91, 192 (Figure 7.1); 319: 207; 320: 208 (Figure 7.12), 209; 323: 201 n. 25, 202 (Figure 7.8); 325: 191 n. 7, 193 (Figure 7.3), 212; 327: 200; 328: 202 (Figure 7.9), 205–06; 332: 212–13; 333: 195, 195 nn. 10–11, 197 (Figure 7.6); 334: 199; 339: 197 (Figure 7.7), 201 n. 24; 342: 200 nn. 21–22; 343: 204 (Figure 7.11), 205; 205 nn. 27–28; 344: 208 (Figure 7.13), 209–10; 345: 213–14; 346: 198; 350: 203–05, (cf 204, Figure 7.10); 352: 198 n. 12; 355: 191 n. 8, 193 (Figure 7.4), 194; 362: 213; 396: 207–09. National Museum (Athens) NM 713: 39, 40, 50; 910: 41; 1815: 37 n. 17; 1958: 34 (Figure 2.4); 2588: 30 (Figure 2.2); 3254: 41; 3938: 28 (Figure 2.1); 4889: 52.

Index Locorum

225

Pausanias Description of Greece I.37.4: 67–68; 68 n. 38; 7.2.11: 114.

Schwenk, C. Athens in the Age of Alexander (Chicago, 1985) no. 6: 75; no. 7: 75 n. 58.

Pfuhl and Möbius, Die Ostgriechischen Grabreliefs 1287: 175 n. 44; 1298: 175 n. 44.

Seneca Cons. 6.5: 133 n. 61; 9.2: 121 n. 21; Ep. 99: 145; 99.2: 133 n. 61.

Plato Laws 958e–959: 48; 959d: 77.

Statius Silvae 2.6.1–8: 133 n. 61; 5.5.79–87: 121 n. 21; 145 n. 85.

Pliny Ep. 4.2: 133 n. 61; 4.7: 133 n. 61; Natural History 34.18: 49 n. 55.

Strabo 14.1.6: 111; 14.1.10: 114 n. 9.

Plutarch Cons. ad Apoll. 102.3: 133 n. 61; Lives: Lycurgus 27: 45; Pericles 37.2–5: 52 n. 64; Phocion 22: 68 n. 38; Quast. Rom. 102.288c: 125 n. 35. [Plutarch] Vit. X Or. (Lives of the ten orators) 837c-d: 68 n. 38; 842e: 71. Quintillian Inst. Or. 1.5: 139 n. 71; 1.15: 139 n. 71.

SEG 12.87: 74 n. 55; 24.258: 68; 37.161–163: 71; 42.1072: 100 n. 62. Tacitus Agricola 35: 167; Annals 15.23: 121 n. 21; 145. Tübingen University E 64: 35. Vegetius II.20: 161 n. 23.

RIB I 2325: 200 n. 22.

Vitruvius de architectura (On architecture) 7.7.6: 49 n. 55.

Scholiast: Aeschines 1.39: 52 n. 64.

Xenophon Poroi 2.3: 87.